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Seeing 
Europe Backwards 



By 



vv 
m 



Huston, I . S. A. 

NATHAN SAWYER 6* SON, Inc., 

1922. 






COPTKIGHT 1922 

By Wm INGLIS MORSE 



©CI.A659805 
APR 27 1922 

"HP / 



J- 



To 

Two 

Who journeyed 

WITH ME. 



CONTENTS. 
Part I. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Foreword 9 

I. Normandy 12 

II. Paris — Chartres, Beauvais and Amiens . 22 

Part II. 

III. Dover to London 35 

IV. London to the Scottish Border .... 44 

V. Scotland and the Scotch 50 

VI. The Upper Sources of the Tweed to Windermere 

and Oxford 56 

VII. London to Land 's End 62 

VIII. Salisbury. Chichester and the Isle of Wight . 69 



PEEFACE. 

The following sketch of a motor trip through Normandy, Picardie, 
around Paris and environs and up and down the British Isles is 
not intended as a guide book or fragment of history, but a floating 
picture in motion as water passing under a bridge. 

Our pilot at the wheel did service in the Balkans as a dispatch rider 
during war days, and en route amused us with many tales — among 

them the story of the famous Scotchman, Sir H L , who gave 

his chauffeur "three hearty cheers" for a Christmas present. We 
echo a similar sentiment with respect to our friend and offer — 
"Three 'earty cheers for Driver Ball!" 

Printed as special edition to 
The Chronicle, number 162, and 
limited to 200 copies. 

No 

"WIM" 



Regardant PEurope en arriere 




SEEING EUROPE BACKWARDS 



FORKWORO 



The Romance of the word "Europe" is based on a 
civilisation much older than ours in America. Il is said 
that the word is derived from the name "Europa" — 
the t'aliled daughter of a king who once lived in southern 
lauds. This dear lady had various adventures in Mythol- 
ogy and her present namesake has gone through a series 
of experiences, which render her an object of interest 
for years ahead. 

SEEING EUROPE BACKWARDS is at least sug- 
gestive of some experiences beyond the herring pond. 
FGC bas set forth his idea of what riding in Paris is 
like. Journey from the Chemins de Fer du Nord to the 
Place de l'Etoile and you are likely to get some inkling 
of what's happening. Sitting with back to the perils of 
transportation is easier on the nerves. A few broken 
down "Flying Bedsteads" scattered up and down the 
Champs-Elys ees are amusing testimony to the dangers 
which lurk ever in the path of your trail. The police 
with their sticks in a half-hearted way try to reduce the 
dangers. Repeated rides around town at last give you 
an idea of " Where's \\ here. " 





Getting "over there" necessitates crossing the wide 
stretch of waters covering the Atlantic route. The 
picture of the steamer moving away on the dim horizon, 
the fish wondering at the empties left behind, is a theme 
for imagination. Our artistic friend again throws us 
an idea in pencil, which might well give us the desire to 
start for the other side. 

"Taking ship" now is far different from the days of 
St. Paul. Every comfort is furnished the traveller. 
His stateroom seems a little cramped, no matter what the 
price, yet it furnishes a resting place for the weary at 
night. Taxgatherers are behind. Your friends will 
amuse themselves day by day, write you on occasion and 
after your return things will progress in much the same 
way as before you started, except that you have pleasing 
memories of summer days, you recollect some "sights" 
and most of all the things glanced at too hastily, not 
knowing at the time that they were worth more than a 
casual glance. Is it not thus with most of us as we skip 
along? When you try to patch up your journey and 
make it more complete, you see that many lights and 
shades have been omitted, this, that and something 
else. Perhaps next time you'll do better. But alas, 
the next time never comes! 

THE WATER FLOWS UNDER THE MILL AND 
ON TO THE SEA. 

The hurly-burly on ship keeps up until you arrive on 
the other side and then it increases. The fog en route 
makes you anxious, and every time you hear the Captain 
step on the fog horn, you wonder what is coming next 
as the huge leviathan swishes along, the fish wondering, 
people exercising on deck, some asleep in their chairs 
(the non-nervous kind) and so on. 

10 



Your Scotch friend does not look you up, because he 
says "it's uncannily hard to find anyone," and he does 
not care much as to this, preferring to play his game 
and sleep late into the morning. Besides this, he is a 
Knight or something of that sort and is written down in 
"Who's Who." 

Attendants look well to your comfort and do all they 
can for you, but if mal de mer comes you are likely to do 
it yourself. The traditional Pan is not much use. 

Fifty per cent of the travellers are of Semitic origin, 
very well dressed and smart. "Vere do all des peoples 
hail from?" someone asks. Out of 13,500,000 Jews in 
the world, 6,000,000 abide in Russia, 1,250,000 in Aus- 
tria, 1,000,000 in Hungary (many of them hungry), 
600,000 in Germany, 300,000 in the British Isles, 5,000 in 
Spain and Portugal, 500,000 in Asia and all the rest in 
America (2,500,000). The hopes for resettlement of these 
people in Palestine are not bright, because the sons of 
Abraham prefer the busy centres of the world or this 
ship, which has been dubbed "The Palestine Express." 

The passengers have been described as "mundane and 
demi-mundane. " Princess Vloe is travelling "incog." 
with her black dog, black sheets and black pillow cases. 
Mr. F. sits by the door of B 55 and sleeps most of the 
time with his mouth open, and in waking hours complains 
that he can't get in touch with the sea. The ship is 
therefore to be condemned. The lady of the "snoot" 
walks up and down deck, snoots in her chair, awake and 
asleep, and when she turns the front deck end, the wind 
catches her nymphlike form in its embrace and proceeds 
to do with her what Barrias tried to do in his statue of 
"Science unveiling Nature." 

Here's good-bye to the Ship "Acq"! 



CHAPTER I 

Normandy 

Cherbourg circa June 21st, 3 a. m. Much noise and 
rattling of chains, trunks. Whistles blowing. Mutter- 
ings in French. A peek out of the porthole reveals the 
coast of Normandy, one of the most ancient of French 
Provinces, owing its name to the Normans who settled 
here in 911. 

The hour of debarkation arrives. A tender conveys 
you tenderly shoreward, rocking like a cradle on the 
swell. 

Dogs, hatboxes, hampers and a medley of letters add 
to the confusion and the jam — far worse than that on 
Noah's ark. The Custom officials let us pass thro' the 
bars, asking only for cigars and matches. French porters 
pull the handles off of some of the bags before the pas- 
sengers are landed, not maliciously but because they try 
to carry too many at one time. One lady's hamper 
flies open and out drop hairpins, powder boxes, feminine 
articles of wear and a pocket book — the last a sort of 
extra in case said lady lost her other one. 

Later we interviewed Monsieur Hebrard of the Hotel 
du Casino — seeking a motor to take us to Rouen, the 
ancient city of Normandy. An American turns up at 
the right moment, having just done the trip from Paris 
in 5 hours (250). Essence costs circa $1.50 per gal. 
A Panhard bus is hauled out of a shed, refurbished, 
filled with "the necessary" and having made a verbal 
agreement as to price ("Moan Doo! Never do that!") 
we start for Rouen. Climbing the hill out of Cherbourg 
was a long process, almost as slow as getting to the top 
of Mt. Everest. The occupants of the car sit still, look 
pleasant, view the pleasing landscape o'er, and keep 
silent as to comments and possibilities. Fortunately 
the day is fine. 

12 



Later on we passed thro' a minor chateau country, 
not far from the home of Millet. His pictures have no 
doubt glued your attention to the beauties of art. The 
originals cost more wherewith to decorate your walls, 
but in most cases "copies" are easier to procure, and 
cause you less tax worries. 

Rene seemed to find it easy to go down hill. The 
machine was alive, while the muffler roared like a steam 
engine on the move. Never mind the rattles! He winds 
his horn at the approaching cross roads, but does not 
slacken speed, not even for hens or dogs or children. 

At noon we hailed the ancient town of Bayeux, having 
passed thro' the Cotentin country, famous for its cattle, 
and recalling the Biblical Words — "There was much 
cattle there also." The ten-year-old Panhard was not 
quite up to snufT, but the best obtainable. 

Rene, the driver, was a native of Cherbourg. His 
knowledge of English was nil. When desiring to do a 
little conversing, we pointed to some cattle in the field 
or a passing two-wheeler and discoursed in Jew-fashion 
with our hands. The chauffeur was handicapped in this 
respect on account of the wheel. Now and again, when 
the desire to say something welled up within, we consulted 
a dictionary and then tried an experiment in some line 
of comment. The information imparted was very scant 
— mostly conjecture. 



At Bayeux we stopped near the Cathedral close. Con- 
sulting a French priest, we soon learned that he did not 
speak English. The ladies came to our assistance and 
acted as interpreters, which part they did with good 
grace. 

South of the Cathedral the Musee, where the Tapestry 
is housed (the place was once the palace of the Bishop of 
Bayeux) we were led by the keeper to an upper room. 
Inside we saw for the first time the Historical Embroidery, 

13 



which gives in detail the history of one of the five or six 
great happenings which changed the face of Europe. 
The preservation of this tapestry is a long story in itself. 
It was hidden by the authorities many times during the 
centuries since the Conquest. One time it used to hang 
in the choir of the cathedral. At another crisis it was 
hidden in a lead box. During the Revolution, when the 
citizens of the town were fitting out some vans to carry 
military supplies to Paris, some one suggested that the 
tapestry be used to cover the tops of the waggons. To- 
day this famous relic is preserved under glass in the room 
of the Musee — the linen in good state of preservation 
and the colors almost as bright as yesterday. 

A word as to the history and description of this work 
of the past. Some authorities associate this tapestry 
with Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror (1066 or 
not later than 1100). A few aver that it was not done 
by Matilda, assisted by her ladies at court, but by some 
unknown party. The name by which this relic is known 
is not mentioned by William or his wife in their wills. 
Inventories of 1369-1476 called it— "La Grand Telle du 
Conquest d'Angleterre". Such names in the record as 
Aelfgyva, Ceastra and Franci suggest a possible English 
origin. The weight of evidence goes to show that this 
tapestry was of French making and contemporary with 
William the Conqueror and Matilda. Bishop Odo 
(uterine brother of the Conqueror) is associated with it. 
The worsted of Bessin district is clear. The wine bbls. 
are peculiar to the locality. The length of the nave of 
the cathedral of Bayeux, where it used to hang, confirms 
our supposition and points to Norman origin. 

The uniqueness of this work is based on following 
reasons — 

1. Because of its remote origin. 

2. Because it is executed on such a detailed scale. 

3. Because it relates to matters of such historical 
moment. 

The portrayal represents one of the half dozen acts 
necessary to the remaking of Europe (cf. Freeman's 
"Norman Conquest"). . . The Norman Adventures, the 

14 



reforms of the Church under Gregory VII and the Cru- 
sades. Following these (Belloc) "Europe awoke from 
sleep and flowered into the Middle Ages." 

Fame is won in various ways. 

1. By the pen of great writers in various ages. Wace, 
one of the contemporary writers of the Conquest, says — 
"All things hasten to decay; all perish; all come to an 
end. Short would be the fame of any after death, if 
their history did not endure by being written in the book 
of the clerk." 

(Wace's poetical works were "Roman de Ron", a 
poetical hist, of the Norman Dukes, and Brut, a hist, of 
the British Kings.) 

2. Fame is won by the use of the chisel. The sculptor 
carves a Venus de Milo. 

3. Fame is gained by the use of the pencil of the 
artist (now being revived again) — e.g., sketches of Tur- 
ner, Leonardo da Vinci. 

4. Fame in this instance of the Tapestry came by 
the use of the needle of the highborn dame — Matilda 
assisted by her ladies at court. 

A design was evidently prepared, outlining scenes in 
the conquest of England by William in 1066. The exact 
draftsman is unknown — perhaps some priest or priests 
— for they were the principal artists of the time, the best 
educated. The inscriptions in Latin, though somewhat 
rude, show the hand of an educated person. 

Inscriptions of to-day will be as difficult to interpret a 
thousand years hence as these of the Bayeux relic — un- 
less they are marked in some universal language. Paint- 
ings do not tell much to a future age, but a bas-relief, a 
"cop" holding up a Flying Bedstead, a man selling 
newspapers to another or Dust-eaters in convocation — 
if portrayed in pencil or even by needle would make such 
scenes independent of alphabets or idioms. 

The tapestry in detail is 230 feet long, 19 and two- 
thirds inches wide — is divided into 72 compartments or 
scenes — pictures 623 persons, 202 horses and mules, 
55 dogs, 505 other animals, 37 buildings, 41 ships and 

15 



boats, 49 trees (very queer looking). The horses in the 
boats on the way to England evidently had an attack of 
trial de mer. William's craft has a cross design from the 
Pope nailed to his masthead. The Pope by the way sent 
the Conqueror a signet ring with large stone and under- 
neath the stone a hair of St. Peter. When the nobles 
started for the boats and had to wade into the water, 
they evidently removed their breeches. 

We note one or two other features. Wace, with respect 
to drinking, writes — 

"This is their custom and their gest 
When they are at the ale or fest; 
Ilk man that loves, where him think 
Sail say wassail, and to him drink. . . 
He that bids sail say wassail; 
The tother sail say again drinkhail. " 

Another feature. In those days only Kings or great 
men had beds or slept in them. King Edward is repre- 
sented in bed, very sick indeed. The story in detail you'll 
have to read for yourself. Common people had no beds. 
In wooden boxes in the halls or kitchens were stored a 
number of ticks, and before going to bed the peasant or 
serf pulled one of these ticks out of the box, filled it with 
packing and then proceeded "to hit the hay or straw". 
As regards beds in those days, be it noted that it was the 
custom of the times to "go into bed naked". "Nighties" 
were evidently not in use, but clothes for covering must 
have been furnished to keep away the night-chill. Prob- 
ably the sleepers had taken a few night-caps to make 
themselves more comfortable before retiring. Sweet was 
their sleep! No worries, no nerves! Headaches (?). 
Toothaches (??). 

Only three women are mentioned in the tapestry. 
Aelfgyva and the Priest remain a mystery. The scarcity 
of women indicates the modesty of Norman ladies and 
retiring nature. We are evidently living in a different 
age — only a thousand years distant. "Retiring habits" 
is a good way to express it. 

16 





Cathedral of Bayeux 



£T hi CEP SCq5V>GBV;l 




Bishop Odo blesses the F< 
Bayevi tapestry.) 



A minute study of the Bayeux tapestry convinces us 
that fashions raged in those days as well as the twentieth 
century. We refer now to ways of doing the hair and 
especially the matter of whiskers or hair on the upper 
lip. The Saxons seem to have worn mustachios; the 
Normans not so. Probably the colder climate of Eng- 
land made it necessary, especially in winter. 

In parting with this historical theme, which offers so 
much of interest to the student, we must record the story 
of William's courtship. For seven long years he tried 
to woo Matilda of Flanders. She was not responsive to 
his ardors. One day, mounting his steed, he started for 
Bruges and arrived there just as Matilda was coming 
home from Church. He reproached her with lack of 
affection for him, and then removing her from the carriage, 
coolly rolled her in the mud of Flanders. Mounting his 
horse, he rode away. The bewildered lady, who had 
been courted for a time by a Saxon noble, bedrabbled and 
mauled, began to pull herself together and doubtless 
felt much like the chicken run down by a car, expressing 
its idea of the happening, by shaking the dust out of its 
wings, and voicing the sentiment — "My, but that was 
some bird!" 

When Matilda had thought the matter over, she con- 
cluded that William's action was due solely to his inten- 
sity of affection for her. The outcome was that she 
married him, but the Pope extracted a promise from both 
of them (they were blood relations) that they would each 
build an Abbey by way of letting down the bars — the 
Abbaye-aux-Dames and the Abbaye-aux-Hommes. These 
buildings express in stone the spirit of "the loving and 
faithful Duchess" and the "imperial will of the conquer- 
ing Duke". 

Our first meal in France was served at a hotel in the 
town of Caen, next to Rouen the most interesting place 
in Normandy. Charlotte Corday set out from here to 
assassinate Marat. The town is also famous for its stone 
quarries. Some of the stone was brought to Annapolis 
Royal, N. S., about the early 17th century, and served 
to build a powder house for the fort. 

17 



Ordering our luncheon, we began to look around. A 
few French people were engaged in eating, talking, and 
enlivening themselves with a little wine. One young 
couple ordered cider. The Doc. asked if it was "pomme 
de terre" juice but we judge he found out the mistake 
later. 

The waiter produced a chicken, placed it in a compressor 
machine, extracted all the juice, cooked the bird on a 
small stove and served up the sauce in a very pleasing way. 

When the time came for settlement of the bill, Garcon 
objected to the tip, shouting — "Non, non! It is not 
enough!" We replied — "How much do you want?" . . . 
This brought up the grievous question, which has caused 
more or less discussion in various parts of the world — 
THE QUESTION OF TIPS. 

TIPS OR WAGES? Which shall it be? 

The waiters of Paris call for abolition of the tipping 
system. They say that for them the "pourboire" 
equals the "pourmanger. " It is a question of CAPRICE 
VS CUSTOM. Is it to be ten to twelve per cent on 
your bill? It might prove a question of "amour propre". 
Would removal of this tipping business result in a loss of 
incentive to please? We are inclined to think that the 
average man's sense of duty to his customer is so small 
that he would be inclined to tell the customer to be 
"damned." 

The personnel of the hotel probably would object to 
scrutiny of the books. If a charge is made extra for 
service, it is included in the bill. This is about the same 
as your storeman selling you goods, tacking on ten per 
cent and then promising to deduct it if you pay it within 
thirty days. 

A fair rule seems to be — TIPS PROPORTIONED 
TO SERVICES RENDERED. 

If you are placed in position where tips are necessary, 
for one thing, refuse to wear a hat or to check your hat. 
It will save you many francs a year. It also will make 
you hardy. Hats to oblivion! 

Leaving Caen, early afternoon, we toured away thro' 
the beautiful Norman country. Instead of going in 

18 



direct line to Rouen via Lisieux (where Henry II of 
England married Eleanor of Guienne, 1154) we headed 
north toward Dives-sur-mer, starting place of William I 
for England, 1066. Here is located a quaint hostel 
called " Guillaume-le-Conquerant." Thence via IIoul- 
gate. Two miles outside this town, our Panhard col- 
lapsed. Its spine parted or pulled out a main socket, 
and there we were dished on the road to Deauville. 
Fortunately we were halted in front of an old Country 
Chateau, where we had a chance to rest the soles of our 
feet for about t hours. Rene at last started to telephone. 
He returned 2 hours later. The phone was out of order. 
Thence we shot him off towards Houlgate with orders 
to get another machine or perish in the attempt. Two 
hours more wait. The afternoon waned. A French 
peasant came along in his two-wheeler, with a dead 
calf miilrr the scat. We hailed him ami tried to do a 
little talking. The wife of the lodge-keeper came to our 
rescue and the man agreed to take us hack to Houlgate. 
We piled oui- bags into his cart, and started after him 
on the walk. 

Our Chauffeur before leaving us the last time said — 
" II faut que je marche." A mile outside Houlgate we 
met him returning in a limousine driven by another 
man, who proved very accommodating. There and then 
we stopped and argued about settlement of terms for 
I he trip lo date. 1 1 looked as if we were stung. "Moan 
Doo!" Rene looked crestfallen when we said it was all 
over, and In- could return to Cherbourg. 

Then we hustled our hags into the new car, paid the 
man with the two-wheeler, and started for Deauville, 
where we finally landed ;il Hotel Normandie. The place 
was rather cool. A good many sporting people gather 
here in the summer and do a little "high" flying." 

Dinner was served later. While in process, one of 
the orchestra members a violinisl jazzed into the 
room and asked us what selection we would like. Some- 
thing was spoken, li cost an extra fee. Later, he tried 
ihe same trick again, but wisdom comes after experience. . 

Th« 



v.n of oi li- 
on ihe roa 


second day in 

.1 lo Rouen ii 


France saw 
a Daimler 


us 

■ar. 


ere 
A 



three hours run and we were in sight of the ancient city, 
so famous for its mediaeval remains and nestling so 
peacefully in the valley of the Seine. One mile out of 
the town we blew a tire, and the driver had difficulty in 
removing the nut from the hub. He called on several 
higher powers and grew very angry, until we suggested 
how the cap could be removed. Half an hour passed 
and we were at the door of the Hotel de la Poste, Rouen, 
where we stayed for two or three days and were very 
comfortable. 

The keys at this hotel were the quaintest we have ever 
seen in our mortal travels. We never expect to see 
anything to match the door-openers here this side of the 
golden gate. By mistake, we carried off the key to our 
room. Tied to the handle was a piece of beaten lead 
weighing about a pound. In Paris, a wire asked the 
editor to return the same to the Hotel de la Poste. That 
is the way the French value antiques. They cultivate 
thrift and never spend a cent without good reason. We 
advise some of our spendthrift friends to live in France 
for a time and learn something about this most useful 
habit. 

The hotel furnished excellent food, luscious straw- 
berries, cherries and other specimens of the field. The 
environment was not excessively clean, but we managed 
to get on. The bedrooms were conveniently located for 
jumping the windows in case of fire. A baby opposite 
cried during the night. A dog barked. The next thing 
we knew it was morning, and the carts began to rattle, 
girls hustled down the back street to work, venders of 
wines and tapestries opened up their shops opposite 
our window, and we had a fine chance to take notes. 

French money issued by local banks began to mani- 
fest itself. Silver was practically non-existent — hidden 
away in the stocking. Our experience here was repeated 
in Paris and other parts of northern France, Amiens, 
Chartres and Beauvais. Thousand franc notes seemed 
to be the largest in circulation. When you removed one 
of these from your wallet, you simply kissed the note 
goodbye. 

Rouen boasts three fine churches — Notre Dame, 
St. Maclou and St. Ouen — three of the best in France. 



The church at Bonsecours is modern and cheap as most 
modern structures are apt to be. A curious clock — 
Tour de la Grosse-Horloge — erected 1389, shows how 
things were done in the 14th century. 

Rouen is also associated with the personage known as 
Jeanne d'Arc. In this town, King John of England 
(exemplary gent.) murdered his nephew, Arthur of 
Brittany. Here Joan was burned at the stake. Here 
were born Corneille, La Salle, Flaubert and other lights 
of the world. 

We attended our first and last cinema show while in 
Europe in this town. Very good of its kind, but not as 
interesting as some of the other sights. 

In staying at foreign hotels it is always well to make a 
close acquaintance with the concierge. He's a mine of 
information. A good sized tip is well spent on him if 
you plan to stay in his vicinity for many days. You can 
joke him, pull his whiskers, get him to translate English 
into French for you and loads of other tricks. 

We took our farewell of Rouen. When the train was 
due to start for Paris, the guard came out of his box near 
the tunnel and putting a French horn to his mouth blew 
a long and clamorous blast. Our regret was that we were 
not able to bring away a similar kind of horn. The sound 
still lingers in our ears. Perhaps Childe Roland had a 
similar kind of horn when he blew it outside the Dark 
Tower. 

So we sped on our way to the gay city of Paree. 



21 



YOU 




CHAPTER II 
Paris 

Paris, July 24th, St. Lazarre Station. We had con- 
siderable fuss over trunks. Proceeded up town to our 
hotel, but found the rooms all let. We shook the dust 
off our feet and departed from this wicked inn-keeper. 
No hand talk! Finally we were lodged at the Mercedes 
near the Place de l'Etoile, where we were made comfort- 
able at considerable expense for over two weeks. Our 
friends in Paris came to call on us. We tried to recipro- 
cate. The manager at the hotel talked about America, 
the Boxing match, etc. The concierge discoursed on a 
multitude of matters, and said that he knew five languages. 
We exhausted his knowledge of these tongues in a few 
days. His long whiskers were a marvel. We told him 
he talked too much. He said his throat got dry from 
too much speaking. 

We tried to get him to translate the title of our rambles 
into French. Here he was stumped and said that it 
could not be done, adding to this a hand-flourish and a 
long drawn sigh. The best we could get from him was 
— "Seeing Europe a la machine'''' or "Seeing Europe 
a la revers." In despair we gave it up. All things are 
not possible with men. 

Scarcity of soap in Paris was noticeable. The water 
was hard. The dirt refused to come off. We used 
Evian water and Vichy for inside purposes plus a little 
Sauterne. The cooking was excellent. A full course 
dinner would cost you considerable, so much so, that you 
soon learned wisdom in ordering your food. Breakfast 
consisted of black coffee, a roll, and after waiting a long 
time for the chef perchance a little bacon and eggs. 
Oranges were extra. As you sat at the table, you could 
see the people moving to work. The flies were present 
in full assemblage — all married and grandfathers many 
times. 

22 






JfliiHt l9 




11 




iiiii 

ttmiftm 



Righl Centre Portal 
Notre Dame, Paris 



Shopping engaged your attention till luncheon. Then 
some more scurrying around to view the objects of interest. 
Life is too short to see all of Paris in one visit. We ad- 
vise several visits. The art works are famous. Paintings 
abound. Perfumery shops are enticing. We dodged 
into a motor shop, where the Delage machine was for 
sale, and asked the price. The salesman replied — 
"Seventy Sousand francs." Thank you! This was 
the chassis only. 

We visited the Notre Dame Cathedral; spent a half 
hour at La Madeleine and narrowly escaped getting 
caught in a wedding procession. Hymen & Co. were 
there in full force. The Suisse came on leading the gay 
party from the portal. The assistant verger grabbed 
his baton, ran to the holy water font, dipped it into the 
water, and then shook it around on the people to ward 
off any sign of evil or the Devil himself. Seemed as if 
we could hear his stick sizzle when he drew it out of the 
font bowl, reminding us in his act of a blacksmith at his 
forge, who betimes dips his hot tongs into a tub of water 
next the anvil. Perhaps this seems like imagination, 
but this performance over, up the aisle the wedding 
party proceeded keeping time to most ravishing music. 
A few moments later, we managed to get out through 
those bronze doors on which are carved the Rulings of 
the Decalogue. 




A visit to the art galleries of Paris is one of the first 
dreams to be realised. The Louvre is the most important 
public building in the world, because it houses many of 
the finest treasures. Par excellence the Museum of 
Europe. Napoleon and others added to its treasures, 
collected from various countries, many of which were 
never restored. The rooms are so extensive that it 



23 



takes two hours just to walk thro' them without stopping. 
Hence the utility of doing the tour on a bicycle. You 
may find the stairs a little bumpy and run over a few 
pedestrians, but that is included in the day's work. 
We had the pleasure of glimpsing Orpheus bringing back 
his wife Eurydice from the "infernal" regions; also the 
Venus of Milo, the most celebrated of the Louvre treas- 
ures. This lady with "vague and divine smile," with 
superhuman, sightless eyes, with "superb bust and noble 
bosom" at once lures the visitor to worship the beautiful 
in stone. The statue was found in 1820 in Melos by a 
peasant, and sold to France for 6000 frcs. The work 
dates from 2nd cent., B. C. 

We returned another day to see the sculptures; thence 
to view the Mona Lisa (No. 1601), the most celebrated 
female portrait in the world. Leonardo da Vinci has 
portrayed the sphinx-like smile on the lady's face which 
has exercised the wits of poets, artists, observers from all 
walks of life and still continues to fascinate. 

Leonardo's religious conscience did not trouble him 
very much because he used the same model for John 
the Baptist and for Bacchus. 

A journey to the Dome des Invalides — a church de- 
signed by Hardouin-Mansart is worth while on account 
of Napoleon's tomb. (Constr. 1843 f., a crypt 20 ft. 
deep and 36 ft. diam — In centre is sarcophagus of the 
emperor, b. Ajaccio, 1769 and died St. Helena, 1821. 
Around the mosaic are inscribed names of battles, e. g., 
Rivoli, Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Iena, Wagram, 
Moscova. The name "Waterloo" is not there.) 

The tomb is located behind the altar of the church 
and is very impressive in its design (Finland porphyry). 
A solemn, blue light admitted from above enhances the 
grandeur of the scene. 

In the eastern quarter of the city, we visited the Pere- 
Lachaise cemetery — the most interesting in Paris. It 
takes its name from the Jesuit confessor of Louis XIV. 
Some persons are interred here, whose names still live, 
e. g., Abelard and Heloise, the story of whose ill-starred 
lives is still worth reading. We passed by the tombs of 

24 



Rosa Bonheur, Chopin and Cherubini, La Fontaine and 
Moliere. The call of the custodian — "On ferme les 
fortes", warned us that the time had come. You are 
permitted to carry nothing out of the cemetery, without 
a "laissez-passer", except your memories. On Jour de la 
Toussaint and Jour des Moris the place is visited by 
over 130,000 people. 

In haste we made our way across the city to a place 
called Asnieres, on the left bank of the Seine. This spot 
is famous for its dog-cemetery on the He de la Recette. 
A monument to Barry, a St. Bernard, stands in the centre; 
the inscription reads that he saved the lives of 40 people 
and was killed by the 41st Barry (du g d St. Bernard). 
We also noted the words of Pascal — "Plus je vois les 
homines, plus j'aime mon chien". How true! A num- 
ber of inconsolable ladies have their favorite cats buried 
here. 




Other excursions had to do with the Place de l'Etoile, 
the place east of this where a fine stone building was 
damaged by a long-distance German shell. Between 
Pere-Lachaise cem. and Asnieres we passed the one time 
location of the Guillotine. (Incidentally the concierge at 
our hotel offered to sell us a real sample, which he said 
we could donate to an American Museum. Fancy 
getting it thro' the Customs ! One might be tempted to 
try it out then and there.) 

The Sorbonne, famous as a university, is attractive to 
seekers after knowledge. The Ecole de Medecine is part of 
this centre of learning. In looking at a statue in the hall 
of this medical school — "Science Unveiling Nature", we 
noted the grim humor of the artist, Barrias, as he por- 
trays Science removing the fair lady's clothes. For 
Doctors of Medicine this is nothing new, but for Doctors 
of the Church it is not orthodox. 

25 



An afternoon stroll in any direction will bring new 
sights, new surroundings. You see the sign — " Defense 
d'afficher"! You note the brain-throb in surrounding 
the bases of the trees on the edges of the sidewalks with 
an iron grating to allow for moisture, nourishment and 
chance to grow. A little boy passes you with a bottle 
in his hand. It is empty, and he is taking it back to the 
store to get credit for it. (A theatrical joke in London — 
" League of Notions " — has it . ..." A hopeless case is 
12 empties".) 

We were curious to see a French Golf Club. A kind 
friend and former member of La Boulie (Mon. Davey), 
near Versailles, introduced us to the authorities — by 
letter of course — and thither one fine afternoon we 
went for a little excitement. The rules of the Club are 
based on "extraits du code de St. Andrews". Space is 
left at top of columns for trous de depart, distance en 
metres, normale (bogey), coups requs, gagne +, perdu — , 
portage 0, etc 

The only excitement, apart from watching our balls 
roll over the parched ground was furnished by a 
Frenchman teeing up his "pill" on hole 2 and then 
trying to hit it. He made a terrific swing but somehow 
the ball only hopped a few feet into the air and fell into 
a trap. Turning to us, he exclaimed — "C'est rotTON!" 




Two trips to Versailles kept us occupied in observing 
the beautiful palace and gardens, the latter the work of 
Le Notre. The place reeks with historical associations. 
Turning homeward, we rode through the Bois de Bou- 
logne and there bumped another autoist so badly that 
part of his side-gear, including an acetylene tank, was 
badly shattered. One of our front tires went off during 
the impact. The hairs in the driver's mustachio stood 
up like quills. Excitement followed, talk, shaking of 
hands and vituperative remarks. While waiting for 
settlement of the brawl, we visited an inn nearby and 
had dinner. 

26 




Figures on Chartres Cathedr 



Angel Sun-Dial 
Chartres. 




Apart from a call on Monsieur Rupert Heys, Quai de 
Valmy, next day we started for Beauvais and Amiens, 
the last lap on our pleasure trip through Northern France. 
Chartres is included in this — perhaps the most satis- 
fying of all. We secured a second-hand Rolls-Royce 
(not a Chinese i. 

An early start was necessary and breakfast before 
most of the natives were out of bed. At breakfast we 
asked the waiter to hunt up the Chef and get him in 
touch with the ham, which always took about a half 
hour. The journey to Chartres is 200 kil. there and back, 
allowing for some extras. The way led through Ram- 
bouillet, noted for its park, gardens and hunting grounds. 
Beyond here we passed through some of the most interest- 
ing cornfields of France, famous now and famed long 
ago. At high noon we saw the lowers of the Cathedral 
of Notre Dame shining in the distance — one of the 
grandest Gothic edifices in Europe — in sonic respects 
the finest of all. Lowell spent a day here once and to 
tin- inspiration of his visit, we owe that poem, known as 
"The Cathedral". lie describes "A Day at Chartres", 
how he "firsl ordered dinner at the pea-green inn", and 
later near a public pleasure-ground, he .... 

....''blessed the Frenchman for his simple art 
Of being domestic in the simple light of day. 
His language has no word, we growl, for Home; 
But he can find a fireside in the sun, 
Play with his child, make love, and shriek his mind. 
By throngs of strangers undisprivacied. 

Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes 
Confronted with the minster's vast repose. 
Silenl and gray as forest-leaguered cliff 
Lefl inland by the ocean's slow retreat, 
Thai hears afar the breeze-borne rote and longs, 
Remembering -hock-, of >\i\-f that clomb and fell, 
Spume sliding dou n I he baffled decuman, 
1 1 rose before me, pat i<'ii! ly remote 
From the great tides of life it breasted once, 
I [earing I In- noise of men as in a dream. 

27 



I stood before the triple northern port, 
Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings, 
Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch, 
Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say, 
Ye come and go incessant; we remain 
Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past; 
Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot, 
Of faith so nobly realised as this." 

We crossed "the sliding Eure" and wended our tortu- 
ous way up the hill to the Cathedral close, where we 
alighted and tried to photograph some of the beauties of 
this "venerable pile". The west front, richly decorated 
with sculptures, is flanked by two lofty towers. The 
rose window is filled with the oldest glass in Europe. 
The interior of the church is lofty and dark, lighted 
by magnificent 13th cent, glass. Religious thought 
here is expressed in stone. The symbolism is most com- 
plete, and represents "the very thought of the Middle 
Ages made visible." 

Lunch at Hotel Du Grande Monarque afforded a brief 
rest before going back to the Cathedral. The dining- 
room was full of flies, and the flies and ourselves seemed 
to be most of the customers. When the time came for 
the fruit, we dipped our cherries in the sauterne to kill 
the germs, and then sallied forth again for an hour of 
pleasure and contemplation, ere we turned toward 
Paris. (A most illuminating and beautiful book on "The 
Sculptures of Chartres Cathedral," by Margaret and 
Ernest Marriage, text in English and French, Camb. 
Univ. Press, 1909, with a wonderful lot of pictures, 
will give you a good idea of the artistic beauties of 
this noble structure.) 

The waning afternoon increased the shadows which 
fell and lengthened. The quiet scene seemed to lift us 
into another world, another age of faith, when men were 
urged to build even better than they knew. Our last 
view of Chartres Cathedral towers in the light of the 
westering sun still lingers. Well pleased and uplifted, 
we journeyed back to Paris, the noise and bustle, the 
blowing of horns, the innumerable cabbies scurrying 
for their fares. 

28 




Nave of A 



y*v d% ^ ,>V 



W -£ 




There is a saying — "The choir of Beauvais, the nave 
at Amiens, the portals at Rheims and the towers of 
Charlie- would together make the finest church in the 
world." Our assent is uiven with respect to Beauvais, 
where we arrived from Paris. The choir is upwards of 
120 feet long. Ruskin claims that — "There are few 
rocks, even among the Alps, that have a clear vertical 
fall as high as the choir of Beauvais." The name of 
this church is St. Pierre, started in the 13th cent, but 
never completed. Only choir and transepts exist at 
present. 

Entering the Cathedral we found a military mass in 
process for someone deceased — perhaps some notable. 
While viewing the glorious interior, the vaulting, the 
tapestries on the wesl wall, a solemn music charmed the 
listeners and worthy of the pen of Browning or Tennyson 
or Swinburne. Cardinals and church officials, clad in 
gorgeous robes, boys and men as singers, added to the 
beauty of the scene. An hour's inspection and meditation 
and we passed outside, where a Hotchkiss motor awaited 
to take us to Amiens. 

The driver was tall and very French looking. He was 
duck-footed, not webs but feet long and flat, so much so 
that we queried how he was going to manage the pedals 
of his machine, lb- was quite able to do that. Our 
start out of town was at rate of GO kil. per hour. We 
pulled our hats down, held on tight, while the wind made 
our eyes run tears of water. Verily this man rode 
furiously like Jehu in his chariot! We hoped to see 
something of the country of Picardie, but spent most of 
the time rubbing the dust out of our oyo^, and brushing or 
mopping up I he tears. We managed to get him to slow 
< ! - M to K) and so we at lasl appeared at Amicus. This 
town fdi the effects of the war. One obus hit the S. E. 
comer of the Cathedral. Many building-, were destroyed, 
the ruins -till remaining as evidence of the struggle. 

The Cathedral is called "The Bible of A miens" because 
of it- many wonderful carvings in stone, Apostles, Proph- 
ets and Martyrs and hundred-, of other themes. The 
death of St. Firmin is pictured as you see. A clown is 
shown in Cloture du Choeur (16th C). Abo the figure of 
UAnge pleureur {Blasser). Cunning little boy! The 

59 



Beau Dieu d' 'Amiens is an admirable figure of the Sav- 
iour, His right hand raised in Blessing. The Virtues and 
the Vices on the lower fringes of the front portals are 
worthy of study, and show the imagination of the artists 
of another age. 

Later we went to lunch at the Hotel du Rhin, where we 
were "refreshed" and watched with a good deal of 
amusement a sort of duel between a waiter and a French 
Dame, who objected to paying for the fish on the bill, 
because she did not eat it. The waiter ran to the desk 
and asked questions and the noble Dame replied that she 
would not acquiesce. The headwaiter came to the 
waiter's rescue but no avail. The amount was deducted 
and then the lady told the waiter what she thought of 
him — trying to rob a poor widow. . We admired her 
pluck. If Americans dealt that way with the French, 
both nationalities would soon be on non-speaking terms 
— in fact nothing doing. 

One "longing, lingering look behind" at the mystical 
treasures of the "Bible of Amiens", and we were com- 
pelled to turn our backs on the lure of things Mediaeval. 
We can still hear the priest chanting his daily Mass in the 
Cathedral; we can see the people passing the Holy Font 
and seeking protection from the Evil one, and going out 
again into the world perhaps stronger in the Faith, which 
makes possible so many of the deepest realities of our 
existence. 



The morning of July 8th dawned clear and propitious 
for our journey to England. Bags packed, minus a few 
articles of underwear, nightshirts, pajamas and slippers, 
we were hustled into a large sized bus, too big to be 
smashed by a Flying Bedstead or other evil fiend. The 
waiters, porters and many maids were assembled to 
wish us good-bye. 

The ride through the shining fields of Picardie and 
Artois was all too quickly over, and Calais was announced. 
Our embarking was done in quick fashion. The sea was 
calm and visibility good. Regrets assailed us and the 
wish that we might again turn back to the city of our 
summer dreams. 

30 



Forward we move. Underneath us "the never silent 
strait"; behind us "Calais glittering in the sun"; over- 
head the whirring Handley-Page Express on its swift 
flight to London, and before us — 

" the cliffs of England, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay." 




31 



'Trees may bud, and birds may sing, 
Flow'rs may bloom, and verdure spring. 
Joy to me they canna bring, 
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O." 

From R. Tannahill (1774-1810). 



PART IL 
CHAPTER III. 

Dover to London. 

What we see in travel depends a good deal on what 
we carry with us. It is similar to what we find in the 
other great experiences of life — love, making friends 
and the allurements of beauty. Enchantments come 
and go, but they are peculiar to no one age, past or 
present. Fears, ignorant people and other disagreeable 
things may greet us on the journey, but the joy of 
romantic things shows that our instincts are sound. 

The day of our farewell to France was fine — one in a 
thousand for crossing the narrow sea. The other shore 
was lost in a haze at the start, although the channel 
was smooth as an inland lake. Behind us was the 
"City of Light," and the fast receding shores of that 
land, which boasts so many famous worshippers. To 
our recollection came those words of Browning: — 

"Queen Mary's saying serves for me 
(When fortune's malice 
Lost her Calais . . .) " 

and Arnold's reminders of the shining fields whereon 
the Middle Ages seemed again gorgeous in their splen- 
dour of the past. 

Afternoon tea served to brighten the passage. 
While thus engaged we heard the whirring of the 
Handley-Page Express moving rapidly toward the white 
chalk cliffs of England. The brief glimpse, the rattle 
of the "tin", lasted only for a moment. A half hour 
later we were landed at Dover, and to our right first 
viewed the Shakespeare Cliff, which takes its nomen- 
clature from the passage in King Lear — 

35 



"The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
Show scarce so gross as beetles: . . . 
Half way down . . . 
The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
Appear like mice . . . the murmuring surge 
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes 
Cannot be heard so high. . . . I'll look no more, 
Lest my brain turn and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong. " 

On debarking, the passengers are lined up in pens 
according to nationality — aliens or citizens, sheep or 
goats. Once through you come out into a larger 
place, where you deposit your bags and await your 
turn for examination. The matter of perfume is the 
most serious. While waiting for the critical moment, 
we noted a weary looking man at the other end of the 
shed removing a quart bottle of cologne from his 
satchel. A discussion was on. Sopping his handker- 
chief with a bit of the contents and bathing his fevered 
brow, we next witnessed the removal of the treasure 
by the officer. Our examiner gave us the wink, and 
by way of parting said — "Well, there's one thing I 
know that you haven't got, and that's whiskey, be- 
cause you're all Pussyfoots." 

A smile does wonders, even in parting. A motor 
awaited us outside. The London train moved out 
and in some sort of a second-hand Italian car, we started 
for Canterbury, where we arrived at dinner-time and 
found rooms at the County Hotel, which still boasts 
some kind of English service. The war has produced 
many changes in this respect. 

The Cathedral, yellowish in tint in the late afternoon, 
looked deserted. The dryness of the close seemed to 
harmonise with the rest of the environment. The 
iron gates leading into the edifice were closed, but 
hearing sounds of choir-boy music inside, we listened 
for a few moments. Here was a kind of enchant- 
ment — the master drilling his boys for the services on 
the morrow. A strange man stood near us and seemed 
lost in meditation. Later he remarked that he used 




Choir-boys at study-hour, 

Canterbury Cathedral. 

(p. 38) 




S;irn i uarj door i aorl Ii side 1, 


\< 


ar the Liz 


Durham Cathedral 




( Cornwall 


(p. W 




(p. 07) 



to sing in the choir — a testimonial to the influence 
for good which this kind of training exerts on those who 
number themselves among that sacred guild. 

Canterbury is a sleepy old town, set apart from the 
roar and bustle of the busy world, yet haunted by 
precious associations and the memories of many great 
names — Augustine, Lanfranc, Anselm, Langton, The 
Black Prince, Cranmer, Laud, Becket, Henry II, Tait, 
Benson, Temple and Davidson. 

An American judge in company with his friends 
once refused to enter this shrine and sat down outside, 
while his companions went inside to view the monu- 
ments. Cathedrals were evidently not his strong 
point. Perhaps lack of association had bred other 
tastes which had overcome his unworldly propensities. 
One needs practice, even in things ecclesiastical, in 
order to preserve enthusiasm; otherwise the fascination 
is lost and the inner music fades. 

"Home and to bed" as Samuel Pepys would say — 
the bed old fashioned. Rest to the traveller is always 
sweet, and with the new day come visions of splendour, 
a tour of the sacred pile, a ramble around the cloisters, 
a glimpse of the Archbishop's palace, the roomy 
quarters of the Deans and Canons, and, coupled with 
this, the desire that one might have so fair a place to 
worship God, to walk the shadowy aisles in the dim, 
religious light, and meditate on values which pertain 
not to food and drink and raiment. 

Morning service at ten was sung. The choir filed in, 
followed by some of the dignitaries of the Cathedral. 
The clergy took their places in appropriate stalls at 
the west end of the choir facing the high altar, and 
stood attention during the service or leaned on the 
cushions. The organist up loft rendered some beauti- 
ful music, the boys and men joining in perfect unison. 
When the music ceased and the procession moved 
away, one felt that part of "the palace of music", 
just reared, had vanished according to the sentiments 
of Abt Vogler. 

Later we succeeded in taking some exposures of the 
interior of the Cathedral — the enthronement chair and 
the spot where Becket's shrine was once located. Our 

37 



verger was considerate, especially after the gratuity, 
and gave us permission to do much as we pleased, and 
a few days hence sent us a couple of colored slides of 
the Becket windows. 

A visit to the choir-school is worthwhile, showing 
the methods in boy-training, the rough benches in the 
school room and their manly attitude, good manners 
and attentiveness to their studies. 

We gathered from the remarks offered by the man in 
charge that this kind of a school bears good results. 
It means training and discipline exercised in the right 
way. The choir paper mentioned the fact that Canon 
Robinson had gone to Dublin to conduct a quiet day(?). 
Canons, Bishops, Archbishops and Doctrines of the 
Church come and go, but choir-boys remain, and still 
chant melodies hundreds of years old. So it is that 
music links the present with the past. 

Canterbury boasts many old cottages, buildings of 
one sort or another, schools and reminders of the 
Middle Ages. St. Augustine's College for colonial 
missions was only one-third full. The war was blamed. 
Many other curious reminders of past days caused the 
passerby to pause and wonder. Mr. Dernbard Jaw 
one time suggested that every building be knocked 
down at the end of twenty years and a new one erected. 
This would get the old cottages. But think of the 
loss! St. Martin's church is worth a visit — its old 
font dating back to Norman days. Thence to the 
train and a long, hot ride to London, broken only by 
glimpses of Kentish fields withered and parched, a 
short stop at Chatham, a glimpse of Rochester Cathe- 
dral and Castle and reminders of Dickens' home nearby. 

The slow transit to the metropolis was due in part 
to the recent strike, which had just been called off. 
Traffic was not normal. It seemed strange to be back 
again after ten years. The interim had seen many 
changes. A taxi whirled us to our hotel on Brooke 
Street — a very fine hostel, but worse than Paris in 
respect to prices. One cause for rejoicing came with 
the thought that Seeing Europe Backwards was not 
such a trial here. One felt that somehow the taxi 

38 




Enthronement Chair, Canterbury Catb 
Former locatioD of Becket's Shrine 
in the Foreground. 



man would "worry through". Yet even here many 
rides backwards were necessary and we were still 
committed to "Regardant l'Europe en arriere". 

Sunday in London is well spent in visiting the 
churches. Our morning choice fell on Westminster 
Congregational Church, Dr. Jowett, pastor. The 
sermon was the real reason. His text — "Ye are the 
salt of the earth " . . . touched the right chords, and 
made it clear that we are the salt of the community. 
Following the service, we were invited to meet those 
who came from the far parts of earth. The social 
half-hour was well spent. One Scotchman in the 
group reminded the Doctor that a good illustration 
for his text would be porridge without salt. 

The afternoon service at St. Paul's Cathedral gave 
us a cool spot in which to rest (the day was very hot). 
"The gloomy Dean" was the preacher. We sat near 
the south transept, which was in process of repair. 
The draughts were rather trying. Colds were in 
evidence. A distemper was prevalent, called "droughty 
catarrh", very English in name and judging by the 
number of wheezes emanating from afflicted mortals, 
the description was fairly accurate. The singing was 
not as good as that at Canterbury. The chants were 
pointed differently and the acoustics were not as good. 
The hymn sung, Dean Inge mounted the pulpit — a 
dark eyed, intellectual giant of the Church, who would 
attract the thoughtful mind anywhere. His text — 
"These having no law are a law unto themselves" 
(St. Paul) . . . pointed to conditions to-day, the 
tendency to cast off all restrictions, to disregard the 
Sabbath, to loosen the marriage laws, to seek pleasure 
and live one's own life. The novels of the age fall 
into accord with this general tendency. Continental 
fashions were evidently not in fashion with the Dean. 
He further pointed out that Christian Liberty is the 
only true kind and that all others are licentiousness. 
If the people of the early Church were subject to dis- 
cipline, if the soldiers felt this same hand during the 
war, why not modern christians in the line of duty? 

St. Martin-in-the-Fields is doing a noble work. The 
present rector has started a great campaign in the very 



heart of London. His parish magazine, or review as it 
is called, is the best sample of a religious review that 
we have seen, in that it is up to date, deals with con- 
temporaneous issues, and its contributors represent the 
highest type of thinkers in England. 

Blue Monday dawned (not very blue but hot). At 
breakfast time we met some sort of a Sinn Feiner, who 
was prowling around the hotel, and noticed him later 
on. His business seemed to be rather mysterious. 
Letters were overdue from home and our first raid was 
on Messrs. . . . , 22 Old Broad Street, a hard place to 
reach and consuming an hour of our precious time. 
The Bank authorities seemed to have the idea that all 
the riches of the world reposed in America, and that 
the rate of exchange might possibly be explained by 
some of the magnates in Wall Street, N. Y. 

Theatres always attract the moths, who desire a 
little light thrown on the humorous canvas of existence. 
To that end we attended at least four of the popular 
performances — "The League of Notions", "The Wrong 
Number", "Bull-dog Drummond" and another play, 
which we have forgotten. We recommend these shows 
as at least interesting, and liable to keep you awake. 
At one performance, a couple of young girls sat behind 
us and the humor of the situation was such, that they 
giggled and wheezed so much and lost their breath so 
many times, that some of the staid English people one 
time by their looks threatened a sort of excommunica- 
tion for these folk. One of the young ladies, possibly a 
flapper, sounded much like the squeak of a mouse. 
Only Mr. Punch could do justice to the occasion. 

The repartee on the stage was rather laughable. One 
of the comedians remarked — "A hopeless case is 
twelve empties." 

Another dialogue in front of the curtain with tele- 
phones — 

"What is a 'igh-brow?" 

"A 'igh-brow is one who has more intelligence above 
his brow than he can carry." 

"What is a low-brow?" 

"A low-brow is one who 'ates a 'igh-brow." 

"Will you 'ave some beer?" 

"No thanks. I've just been sick." 

40 



The mention of a trip to Scotland set our imagination 
in motion, and we immediately began to study routes 
and ways and means. Almost anything seemed feas- 
ible in view of the 'igh cost of living. Pounds repre- 
sented only small pieces of "piper", on which according 
to the custom in vogue, when cashing, one was supposed 
to write his name for purposes of identification. Lon- 
doners were evidently out for crooks. Knowing that 
Scotland was a frugal place, occupied by a people 
far-famed for thrift, we judged it better to take refuge 
there for a few days to bring down the general average 
of daily expense. The canny Scotchman after a week's 
stay in London, wrote home that he had been there 
only a brief time, "when bang went a saxpence". 

We were anxious to find a place where reputable 
golf shoes could be purchased. The desired haven was 
located near Trafalgar Square, just around the corner 
from the spot where "Morley's Refrigerator" used to 
stand (now gone and the building devoted to some 
sort of a club from the far ends of the Empire). The 
square still seemed much as usual. Flappers pass down 
to work each morning and lift their eyes to the amusing 
aspects of the monuments nearby. 

Our store was inconspicuously situated on the 
Strand — the proprietors, Messrs Dowie & Marshall, 
Ltd. They were able to furnish the shoes on order. 
Posted on the wall, we saw a copy of a letter from 
Thomas Carlyle, the Sage of Chelsea, which read 
something like this — 

Dear Sir, — Not for your sake alone, but for that 
of a Public, suffering much in its feet, I am willing to 
testify that you have yielded me complete and un- 
expected relief in that particular, and in short, on trial 
after trial, that you seem to me to possess, in signal 
contrast to so many of your brethren, the actual art 
of making shoes which are easy to the wearer. My 
thanks to you are emphatic and sincere. 

T. Carlyle. 
5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 
10 July 1868. 

41 



While waiting for measurements for the shoes, one 
of the firm showed us a shoe in making for a lady, 
whose ankle measured twenty-six inches in diameter. 
A snow-boot would have been cheaper. Presumably 
Messrs Dowie & Marshall, Ltd., are capable of minis- 
tering to all, who are troubled with hammer toes, flat 
feet and other malformations. 

One or two more journeys around town and our first 
stay is over. The Tower of London is mentioned by 
one of the party. The crown jewels we found well 
protected. Where they were stored during the war 
remains a mystery. Badges of various Orders of 
Empire occupy one corner of the round room. Bestowal 
of one of these insignia on a member of your family will 
add prestige to your name, and your family will talk 
about it ever afterwards. In that case you have to be 
on your best behaviour, when in public, and given to 
good works of every kind. 

In 1911, we saw the Kaiser and two members of his 
family ride forth from the Tower in very jolly style. 
We wondered at the time, and if we had known what 
was to come a few years later would have wondered 
still more about his thoughts on that morn. 

A visit to the Habbey is perfectly orthodox and 
proper. The services this time seemed unusually well 
attended — in fact there was a rush for seats. We found 
the place jammed at vesper service and at length left 
for more commodious quarters. A peep at the wax 
effigies in the little upper room occupied our attention 
on Monday following. 

Bookshops are always enchanting — new wares, new 
ideals, old editions bound in leather and other amenities. 
We were compelled to relinquish our purchase of a 
two-volume copy of George Moore's "Abelard and 
Heloise", owing to some Customs' notice forbidding 
entrance into New York. The S. P. C. K. still conducts 
business and furnishes the clergy with their necessary 
provender, all of which keeps the wheels of the homi- 
letical grist-mill turning from week to week. 




ip.U) 



A few last things, some hours spent over "the dear, 
old trunks", and one day later we were all packed away 
in our motor vehicle, ready for our journey to Scotland. 
Driver Ball seemed glad to see us again. Gladly we 
resigned ourselves to his care, and later in conference 
on the front seat he related en route many of his 
experiences during the war. 



4:5 



CHAPTER IV. 

London to the Scottish Border. 

Our route from London to Edinburgh (425 miles) 
lay through Peterborough, York, Durham, Newcastle 
and Cheviot Hills to the northern metropolis. Two 
days at least would be required to complete the jour- 
ney. Favoring weather and good roads would help. 
Travel imposes its limitations as well as confers pleas- 
ures. A journey once started usually means, if your 
time is limited, that a schedule must be followed. Up 
to date of leaving London, we usually accounted a 
journey of one hundred miles "a quiet day", but to 
reach our northern destination in forty-eight hours 
meant hard work for the driver and endurance for the 
members of the party. A two - hundred - mile trip 
signified the "tearing off" or completion of that part 
of our total mileage for the summer. Time, the great 
thief, was removing from our control so much of dis- 
tance each day. Ours to improve the opportunity. 

A view of Hampstead Heath, once the resort of 
robbers, and in modern times of some famous artists, 
spread itself before our gaze. On Spaniards Road we 
passed Jack Straw's Castle, an old inn, famous in 
bygone days. This region also boasts its literary 
associations connected with such names as Keats, 
Dr. Johnson, George Romney, Bishop Butler and other 
noted men. 

We came in sight of Stilton, famous for its cheese, 
about noon and arrived at Peterborough a few minutes 
later. This ancient town boasts a cathedral — one of 
the most important of the Norman churches yet re- 
maining in England. The structure in present out- 
line dates from the twelfth century. The lightness 
of the interior as shown in the illustration, does not 
detract from the general impression. The solid Nor- 
man piers on more minute inspection show that the 
early builders "scamped" their work, a not uncommon 

44 



happening then as now. This defective work is clear 
from the piers, which are made of a sort of concrete 
shell filled with rubble; moreover, the former builders 
neglected to get down to the solid rock which has been 
found only three or four feet below the existing 
foundations. 

Affixed to the wall to the north of the west door is an 
old portrait of Scarlett, the man who participated in 
the burial of Queen Catherine of Aragon and also 
Mary, Queen of Scots. The Puritans of a later age 
gave some of the monuments harsh treatment. Inspec- 
tion of the roof of the nave shows some fine Norman 
remains. A half hour's walk served to give one an 
idea of this edifice, and to remind us that we must 
continue our journey. 

Outside the town, we were held up by a couple of 
policemen, who desired to know if we were Sinn Feiners 
bent on destruction of the communications leading 
north. Some of the Irish had visited this locality a 
few days before and succeeded in cutting the wires. 
We were able to furnish guarantees of our peaceful 
errand and allowed to proceed. 

Selby is famous for its Abbey, said to be the tradi- 
tional birthplace of Henry I. At Newark-on-Trent we 
noticed an old castle on the south side of the river. 
Our guide book indicated that an exemplary gentleman 
by the name of King John died here about 1216. North 
of this region we passed near the home of William 
Brewster and were reminded that at Bawtry there 
once lived a character by the name of William Brad- 
ford, second governor of Plymouth Colony. At Ret- 
ford, beyond Doncaster, we blew a tire, the first and 
only one on our journey and, while waiting for repairs, 
examined the country nearby. The land was baked 
almost as hard as macadam road, filled with cracks, and 
not very profitable as grazing for the horses and cattle. 

A few unemployed miners were visible, one or two 
near the bridge, and in conversation with them we 
learned something of conditions existing, and how 
during the war many of them were sent to the front 
and the first to be returned to aid in the production of 
the much needed coal. 

45 



Tea at the Barnby Moor Inn gave us a short breath- 
ing spell. This little hostel is situated in the centre 
of one of the hunting districts of the Kingdom. Quaint 
pictures of the chase adorned the walls, and old 
furniture and bric-a-brac lined the halls and living 
quarters. 

En route to York, our camping place for the night, 
we passed the time pleasantly by listening to some of 
the tales of Driver Ball. He spent two or three years 
in the Balkans as a dispatch rider at daily expense to 
the government of two shillings, six pence. Later his 
wages were raised to three shillings, ten pence. Three 
quarters of this was returned to his wife and two chil- 
dren near London. Misfortunes attended his family 
as so many others. During one of the German raids 
on London, his father and rest of the family took refuge 
in the cellar of a garage near Victoria Station. The 
third night, the family went back to their home nearby 
with the result that when a bomb dropped near the 
front of the house, his parent was literally blown 
through the back side of the house. 

John was fond of telling the story of "The Flying 
Bedstead", which originated in France during the war. 
One of the boys had an old bedstead, which his com- 
rades suggested that he smash as badly as possible 
and then ship it to the dealer in popular cars (the most 
popular in America) and ask him to fix it up and return 
within a week. The dealer near Paris wired back — 
"Your car received, but too badly damaged to repair, 
so am sending you a new one." Hence this amusing 
legend of war-days. Whenever you see one of these 
cars on the road, just recall the episode of the Flying 
Bedstead and your ennui will be relieved. Many a 
smile has passed at the remembrance of this tale. 

A night's rest at York prepared us for another day's 
strenuous journey to The Athens of the North. The 
Cathedral to the north-east of the hotel loomed up on 
the hill. The church bells were ringing worshippers to 
prayer, but for once in twenty years at least, we were 
compelled to play the part of backsliders, and make 
resolves that such a sin should not be again attributed 
to us. 

46 



An interesting and charming country greets the 
pilgrim beyond York. A Scotchman presides over the 
fortunes of this great Diocese. His official title in 
signature is Cosmo Ebor. Some trace of the canny 
Scot is found wherever you go, even to the far ends of 
the earth, and his success everywhere is probably due 
to the fact that Scotchmen "take their good where 
they can get it". This observation applies not merely 
to the use of language but a number of other things. 

A short distance beyond Eboracum (York) we spied 
the outline of "The White Horse" carved on the 
southern exposure of the Hambleton Hills. Sixty 
miles ahead we came to a small mining town called 
Coxhoe, the birthplace of Elizabeth Barrett, who once 
lived at Coxhoe Hall. The great people of the world 
spring up in the least suspected places. Her marriage 
later to Robert Browning threw an added glamour of 
romance over the lives of these two delectable persons, 
and gave the world one of the sweetest love stories 
known to the race. 

"Where was he born?" we often ask of such and such 
a person. This suggests many theories as to lives of 
those who have manifested some sparks of genius. The 
thunder cloud stores up its energy and then one day, 
according to Nietzsche discharges its power in the 
lightning flash. So with the great ones of the wide 
world. Just where the cloud will float and how far 
and where the discharge will take place, who can tell? 

We jotted down the following names of those who 
have made their mark on the long and faded scroll of 
time. We glimpsed the spot where they first saw the 
light or lived for many years. Among these we may 
mention — Collins (poet), Chichester, 1719-59; Charles 
Dickens (Portsmouth), 1812-70; Swinburne (London), 
1837-1909; Watts & Millais (Southampton), 1674-1748 
& 1829-96; Robert Browning (Camberwell), 1812-89; 
Shelley (Sussex), 1731-1815; Mrs. Browning (Coxhoe), 
1806-61; Massinger (Salisbury), 1583; Sir Humphry 
Davy (Penzance), 1778-1829; Matthew Arnol'd 
(Staines), 1822-88; Shakespeare (Stratford), 1564- 
1616; George Eliot (Nuneaton), 1819-80; William 

47 



Paley (Peterborough), 1743-1805; William & Robert 
Chambers (Peebles), 1800 & 1802; Carlyle (Ecclefe- 
chan), 1795-1881; Allan Ramsay (Leadhills), 1685- 
1758; R. L. Stevenson (Edinburgh), 1818-87; Sir 
Walter Scott (Edinburgh) 1771-1832. 

This list indicates a few of those mortals, whose 
imagination bodied forth "the forms of things un- 
known" and gave "to airy nothingness a local habita- 
tion and a name". It is difficult to estimate the 
influence of environment on even the above names, 
or exactly how much the city or country plays in the 
production of genius. 

Durham and its Cathedral on the hilltop seem to be 
the resultant of the monks, who once searched for a 
proper burial place for the bones of St. Cuthbert. 
The purpose of these churchmen was somehow mixed 
up with an old lady, who lost her cow and found its 
whereabouts through another observant friend, who 
said the animal was in the vicinity of Dun-holm (hill- 
valley). Here, in a distant age, the monks reared a 
lofty temple, "half castle and half house of God", 
partly for worship and partly for defence against the 
Scots. The sculpture of the Dun cow (which we 
photographed from a recumbent tombstone) is located 
on the northwest corner of the north transept (18th 
century). The sanctuary knocker is an object of 
interest. Modern "knockers" are not as useful or 
ornamental. Malefactors, who were able to sound 
this relic, were allowed refuge from their persecutors — 
a privilege which accords with a somewhat lawless 
age. 

A little fun with the maid at the hotel provoked some 
slight mirth. 

Traveller — "Are you English?" 
Maid— "No, thank God, I'm Scotch!" 
Meeting one of the guests in the hallway, she turned 
the same way as the Doctor. A few moments later as 
they were about to pass, she said — "Are you going to 
do that again?" The job of getting by our friends or 
enemies on the other side seemed to be difficult on many 
an occasion, and all due to a custom. 

48 



We neared the Scottish border mid-afternoon, and 
as we gradually moved up the incline, an inspiring 
view was spread out before us — hills covered with 
heather, sheep feeding on the gentle slopes, misty- 
clouds hanging on the distant summits of the Cheviots. 
Behind us lay the land so full of history and before us 
the abode of the canny Scot, the country where no 
Jews are able to survive the financial strain, and as 
report has it at present time only one remains, and he 
can't get out because he isn't able to raise the money. 



CHAPTER V. 

Scotland and the Scotch. 

The story of the hills and mountains of our planet 
must ever continue to interest our curiosity. The 
Israelite well knew the fascination, when he uttered 
the sentiment — "I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
hills." These upper regions of life keep us from 
going stale and spur us on in hours of depression and 
indifference, reminding us of our priceless heritage. 
A skip from hill-top to hill-top might well prove an 
exciting existence, but the valleys and lowlands must 
also be explored, the harvestage of an earthly round be 
gathered in before we journey to search out the higher 
elevations. 

Forming a thirty-five mile border between England 
and Scotland, the Cheviots have their own tale to tell. 
Beautiful in a scenic way, sung in the ballad of the 
Chevy Chase and the haunt of a hardy race of sheep — 
these hills bring an unending inspiration to those who 
would see for themselves. A scientific writer indicates 
that these mountains, in fact all in Scotland, England 
and Wales, are not genuine in the sense that we think 
of the Himalayas. What a blow to natives of this 
north land! 

For the first time in weeks, we noticed cloudy mists 
gathering on the far away summits. The sun at 
times shot through some less dense shading and re- 
minded us of an April day in Canada. The loneliness 
grew more impressive. The plaintive bleating of the 
young lambs calling their mothers, the wide expanses 
of heather, a stray cottage in some sheltered recess on 
the bleak slope seemed but a parable of humanity's 
journey. We heard no skylarks, but our primal 
instincts were aroused by the sense of spaciousness 
and immensity much akin to the star-strewn sky on a 
summer night. This region is par excellence the happy 

50 



hunting ground of the scientist. He is at liberty to 
examine the cuckoo-spit on the thistles, to listen to 
the humming of bees as they hover above the new- 
blown bells of heather, to interpret the signs of lower 
kinds of life and to watch the cud-chewing of the sheep 
in some sequestered glen. If we see not these signs 
with the lenses of the trained observer, it is because we 
are "mole-eyed". The questions — "When is a moun- 
tain not a mountain?" "Why does heather (ling or 
bell variety) grow so well in exposed places?" may well 
arouse our curiosity. 

Such musings must cease as we descend the northern 
slopes and enter the town of Jedburgh, noted for its 
Abbey, for former visits made by Mary, Queen of 
Scots, Burns, Scott and other literary lights. A 
religious fanatic was busy giving some sort of a harangue 
to his townsmen. Supper at the "Spread Eagle 
Hotel" reminded us of America, but only in name. 
Ere the darkness descended we were in Edinburgh, 
one of the most romantically beautiful cities in Europe. 

The Castle on the summit is well known. To the 
eastward, Arthur's Seat rears its craggy head and by 
its topography indicates that it would be a hard task 
to pinch this particular locality. Scott lived in Edin- 
burgh for over twenty years. Burns is still remem- 
bered. Allan Ramsay's statue stands in the corner of 
the public garden. John Knox, the only man who was 
not afraid of the wiles of the Scottish Queen, is more 
than a memory. 

The amusing lines of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd" 
are worth recalling: 

"A snug thack-house, before the door a green; 
Hens on the midden, ducks in drab are seen. 
On this side stands a barn, on that a byre; 
A peat-stack joins an' forms a rural square. 
The house is Glaud's — there you may see him lean, 
An' to his divot-seat invites his frien'." 

There's many a man, whose work is not commem- 
orated in the land of his birth, and perhaps no monu- 
ment stands in the public square. Alexander Anderson 
(1845-1909) has written some verse, which appeals to 

51 



those who love the home, the scenes at bed-time and 
bairns playing tricks before the sandman appears and 
sends them off to slumberland: 

"The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
Wi' mirth that's dear to me; 
But sune the big warl's cark an' care 
Will quaten doon their glee. 
Yet, come what will to ilka ane, 
May He who rules aboon 
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald, 
'O, bairnies, cuddle doon.'" 

Breakfast sets the pace for the day. We remember 
our first morning meal at the North British Station 
Hotel at the early hour 9.30. Parritch or pudding was 
one item on our menu. In "Old Mortality", Mrs. 
Wilson exclaims — "They're gude parritch eneuch, if 
ye wad but take time to sup them. " Lacking a spoon, 
we hailed the waiter, clad in blue vestments and gold 
buttons, and asked him for the necessary implement 
to convey the product to its destination. Pulling a 
spoon out of his vest pocket and wiping it on a napkin 
to remove the germs, he handed it to us. We queried 
him as to the size of his supply and if he did that all 
the time. Any man in America seen carrying spoons 
in his waistcoat would be accused of some grave crime 
and conveyed to prison. Asked whether he was a 
Scotchman, he replied — "God help us, no!" The 
girls on our right, who kept watch of the change as it 
was turned in, evidently had their ears attuned to some 
of our remarks and one said to the other — "Did ye no 
understan' what he said"? The day of our departure 
from the hotel, we informed the book-keeper, who 
seemed a little "dour", when pressed for news, that 
we were about to say "good-bye", and the bill having 
already been settled, we wondered whether anything 
more was due. To this she replied — "Sorry, but we 
forgot to charge you for an orange!" Do you wonder 
that the wandering Jew still remains in Scotland? 

Red noses are prevalent in Edinburgh. The wet 
climate is doubtless hard on the powders and paints. 

52 




The Tweed near Al 
II. me of Sir Walt( 



Kirkstone Pass, 
Lake Region. 




We suppose that a wee bit nippie is sometimes the 
cause of this ruddy glow. D. B. informed us that 
these people follow their whuskey with a glass of beer 
in order to get the proper result, all of which reminds 
us of those lines of Burns: 

"When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet. ..." 

The keeper of the Castle at Linlithgow seemed 
afflicted with a bluish blossom on his "smeller", but 
perhaps it was due to a "touch o' heart". 

A day later we journeyed to Abbotsford, the pic- 
turesque home of Sir Walter Scott. The immortal 
writer bought this place — a farm called Clarty's 
hole — and changed its name to the one designated. 
Several rooms are open to public inspection on payment 
of a fee — the study, lined with books of the former 
owner, the drawing room, the armoury and entrance 
hall. The house boasts a fine collection of relics and 
presents given to Scott by his many friends. The 
death mask in the hall reveals a very high dome above 
the ears, and proves that Scott was a real 'igh-brow, a 
man among men. 

The Tweed, nearby, flows peacefully on to the sea — 
rather shrivelled in volume at the time owing to the 
drought, but still the Tweed, the home of salmon and 
dear to the hearts of so many Scotchmen. William 
A. Foster expresses his sentiments in the lines: 

"But of a' the sports I ken, that can stir the heart 

wi' glee, 
The troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny 
Tweed for me." 

Andrew Lang in his recent verse is not forgetful of 
this river and the one so dear to him: 

"Wan water from the border hills, 
Dear voice from the old years, 
Thy distant music lulls and stills, 
And moves to quiet tears. 



53 



A mist of memory broods and floats, 
The Border waters flow, 
The air is full of ballad notes, 
Borne out of long ago. 

Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, 
Fair and too fair you be; 
You tell me that the voice is still 
That should have welcomed me. " 

Melrose Abbey is not far from here and still as 
beautiful in its ruined decay and shrouding the heart 
of Bruce. The tracery of the east window doubtless 
serves as a place where the transient birds may rest or 
sing one brief moment ere they flit away. 

Industrial life in Scotland is best seen in a city like 
Glasgow, whither we motored near the end of our stay. 
The docks and shipyards are very extensive. We were 
glad to visit the art gallery, which has a fine collection 
of pictures by many of the famous masters. Whistler's 
picture of Carlyle hangs here. The companion to it 
(his mother) is in the Palais du Luxembourg, Paris. 
Many little children romped through the building, and 
by their actions indicated that they were not all 
interested in art, but had escaped from home and were 
having a bit of a lark. On leaving, one of the attend- 
ants conveyed a stray cat to the street. Kittie had 
evidently sought a place of refuge. Every gallery 
should boast itself the possessor of one cat. 

The old palace at Linlithgow midway on the return 
to Edinburgh is picturesquely situated on a small loch, 
the only one we saw while in the North. 

Our last journey was to St. Andrews on the east 
coast and well known as the home of the royal and 
ancient game of golf. Andra Kirkkaldy records his 
memories in a book of recent publication. He suggests 
heaps of humour in the game. St. Andrews is called 
"The City of Golf and Gospel". The membership 




numbers one thousand and of course is very select. 
One of the caddies reported that he was a close ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Balfour. Asked as to what he 
meant, he said — "I am wearing a pair of Mr. Balfour's 
pants." Amlra suggests that the "nineteenth hole" 
at St. Andrews is never done in less than "two", 
and there is no Bogey for it. A few pictures of the 
course, a couple of sample golf clubs and some other 
curios served as a reminder that we once visited this 
place, where good golfers are made as well as born. 
A golfer's tombstone in St. Andrews Cathedral church- 
yard in memory of Tom Morris is probably unique in 
its line. Hell Bunker on the old course has provoked 
many arguments ami made many scores look a bit 
"dourer". 

'"I [ome and to bed " as Mr. Pepys says. The morrow 
means our journey forth again across I he Lowther 
Hills and thence to new fields and pastures and associa- 
tions of ;i different character. As one can hit the ba' 
be.it when it's no there, so we can now best appreciate 
those days in the land of the Scot. 

There every native "takes pride in being bilingual", 
sees double and "refuses to merge his individuality 
with the Englishman" — although first and last a 
cit i/en of t he Empire. 



55 



CHAPTER VI. 

The Upper Sources of the Tweed to Windermere 
and Oxford 

The "scrutinising" of nature adds to rather than 
detracts from the appreciation of beauty. Wonder 
increases with knowledge. It is so in trailing a river to 
its source in the hills. Our journey from Edinburgh 
southward led us to the heart of this mystery. "Struggle, 
Endeavor and Struggle" is the motto of the Stream's 
life as well as man's. Nearing the upper sources we 
note that the character of the country changes. More 
of hurry is manifested in the case of the waters as if 
they desired to mingle with the river on the meadow- 
land, and once there a growing reluctance to lose 
themselves in the sea. 

Beyond Galashiels we wound our way up to the 
source in the Lowther Hills. Whether these hills take 
their names from a man of the same name, who toured 
Scotland in 1629, is another question. The bed of the 
stream becomes more broken, and here and there 
rough "stanes" appear and an occasional waterfall. 
Peat is noticeable, bog moss and heather, and above 
all the towering hills. A signboard has marked on it 
"The Source of the Tweed". Inspection reveals a 
number of small wells from which tiny streamlets 
bubble out of the cool earth. 

Many observations we must "slipit over with 
silence". Our way south lay over the rising hills to 
Broughton and Moffat. To the west of us the infant 
Clyde takes its rise; the Annan flows toward Carlyle. 
The highest elevation approaches three thousand feet 
in the case of one or two loftier summits — one to the 
east of us lost in a mist. 

Allan Ramsay was born in Leadhills not far away, 
and this spot is reputed to be the highest inhabited 
village in Scotland. His parents were of humble 

56 



origin — the father a manager of a mine. Later this 
youth settled in Edinburgh, commenced business as a 
bookseller and then began to do some writing. Maidens 
engaged the attention of the male sex then as now. In 
his poem to a couple of young ladies, he exclaims: 

"Dear Bessie Bell an' Mary Gray, 
Ye unco sair oppress us, 
Our fancies jee between ye twa, 
Ye are sic bonny lasses: 
Waes me, for baith I canna get, 
To ane by law we're stented; 
Then I'll draw cuts, an' take my fate, 
An' be wi' ane contented." 

From the top of the watershed we noted thousands 
of sheep grazing peacefully. Once we alighted to pick 
some heather. In some cases we noted that the 
flower-bells were dried and sere, although still retaining 
their shape. Deception such as this does not confuse 
the bee. 

Crooks' Inn, a little down the slope, accommodates 
many a passing pilgrim. We noticed a small group 
sitting outside the front door, perusing a map of the 
district and trying to locate the most scenic spots. A 
hasty inspection of the premises revealed no crooks. 

Moffat boasts a fine golf club. A picture of "Sunset 
on the Links" looked rather awesome, much as a golfer 
looks and feels when he returns home after topping a 
hundred. 

Ats Lockerbie we recalled a short stay twenty years 
past, the comfortable inn, the exhibition and sale of 
sheep, and the desperate time we had in getting our 
bicycle fixed after hitting a dog "abaft the scuppers". 

A half hour later we rode into Ecclefechan, the 
birthplace of Thomas Carlyle. The burn outside the 
door was almost dry. A few "clam'rous ducks" were 
amusing themselves in the bed of the stream. The 
cottage is marked with a cross outside the door, signi- 
fying the birthplace of this somewhat "dour" character. 
A reading of Sartor Resartus gives some of the early 
impressions of the writer, his aspirations and many 

57 



suggestions which would benefit the world to-day if 
literally adopted. Carlyle lies at rest in the church- 
yard nearby. 

One moment at Gretna Green, a border town, famed 
for its smithy and many runaway marriages. In 
1754, when clandestine marriages were abolished in 
England, amorous couples were compelled to seek 
hospitality elsewhere. Many came to this place and 
declared their wish in the presence of witnesses, which 
sufficed. The fee was rather high, ranging from half a 
guinea to sums as large as impudence dared to extort. 
In 1856, the law required one of the contracting parties 
to reside in Scotland at least three weeks previous to 
the event. This reminds us of Reno and the "light- 
ning" shows portraying the humorous side of the 
situation. The grooms were probably in such a hurry 
to get away from the blacksmith after the ceremony 
that they probably did not have time to borrow any- 
thing from him on the fee. A runaway place for 
divorces would prove a very popular place in the wide 
world to-day. How conditions have changed! As 
Susan Ferrier once said — 

"Fowk are neither born, nor kirsened, nor do they 
wad or dee as they used to dae — aw thing's changed." 

Late afternoon ushered us into the romantic Lake 
Lands. The road through Penrith and Patterdale 
increased in picturesqueness and near Ullswater the 
mountains, the expanse of lake and surroundings were 
very gran'. In an attempt to climb Kirkstone Pass 
we came near meeting our Waterloo. Two hundred 
yards from the top of the three and one-half mile climb 
we came to a stop. Horse-power was lacking. You 
will note the situation in the illustration. 

Owing to a high tax on horse-power on any kind of 
motor vehicle in England (our driver suggested a pound 
per but this seems high in comparison to our rates in 
America), the motor manufacturers have reduced the 
rating of the machine as low as possible. This means 
reduced pulling power. Hence you get stuck on very 
steep and long climbs. We noted many cycle "bathtubs" 
limping along on one and a half horse-power. 

58 



In our case we alighted and with the aid of some 
stalwart Australians, who were doing a walking tour 
through England, we managed to push the bus over 
the top. Our predicament had its humorous side and 
so compensated for the vexation and humble feeling 
that our new limousine could not negotiate the pass. 
It is only fair to say that we had a very heavy load of 
baggage parked on the top of the machine and five 
passengers to boot. 

A steep descent and we were at last at our journey's 
end for the day. The hotel at Windermere had not 
improved in looks. The hostel was built in 1847, two 
years after the railroad first came to the town. The 
nightwind howled through the keyhole of our bedroom, 
and one wondered that such a solemn place was once 
the haunt of the Lake Poets. The crowing of roosters 
warned us of the approach of morning, and coupled 
with this the weird strains of something, which sounded 
like a flute, but which turned out to be "a harmless 
old man" playing on his violin. An inspection of the 
antique shops showed that most of the brass work was 
made in Birmingham. Dealers buy old furniture here, 
tear it apart and ship to America, where it is reassem- 
bled and sold at fabulous prices. 

The journey to Oxford via train next day meant a 
saving of physical resources and avoidance of some of 
the flat country in the course of over two hundred 
miles. At threepence a mile by rail, the result in 
expenditure works out favorably for the motor, provided 
your party is large enough. 

At Rugby we changed trains and had a short wait. 
Then on again through pleasant fields, past flocks 
feeding or standing at ease under the shady hedges, 
cattle drinking from murky streams, slow moving 
barges sweeping along the surface of some inland 
canal. At Litchfield we saw the three towers of the 
Cathedral in the distance; then Bister (Bicester) and a 
few more weary miles to the City of Learning. 

Matthew Arnold expresses the idea of this place in 
those significant words — "Beautiful city! so venerable, 
so lovely, so unravished by the fierce intellectual life 

59 



of our century, so serene! . . . Steeped in senti- 
ment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moon- 
light, and whispering from her towers the last enchant- 
ments of the Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, 
by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to 
the true goal of all of us — to the ideal, to perfection, — 
to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from 
another side?" 

If you desire further praises concerning this place, 
you will find them in the writings of Lyly, Camden, 
Wordsworth, Dryden, Hazlitt, Hawthorne and many 
others. 

Visits, even twenty years apart, seem to make no 
appreciable difference in the outward appearance of 
the University. Restorations here and there, an 
occasional new building or addition to the working 
forces of this "Queen of Romance" in her war against 
Philistinism — these do not mar the harmony of the 
whole. 

A cabby conveyed us next morning to Christ Church, 
New College and Magdalen. He was very chummy 
and seemed bent on telling us about everything. At 
Magdalen he reminded us of the young man of Royal 
Blood, who once studied here and was constantly 
pursued by his four attendants. One day having 
escaped from his guardians, he hailed our cabby and 
said to him in breathless haste — "Buzz me around 
the corner. " 

An old bookshop in one part of the town seemed 
very attractive on account of its shape and its treasures 
displayed in the windows. What a place to purchase 
rare copies of venerable memoirs of the past, prints 
and all kinds of literary amenities. Space and the 
long trip ahead forbade us increasing our stock. 

The hotel register indicated names from various 
parts of America, Boston included. One or two 
acquaintances antedated us by only a week. One 
nuisance we encountered in most of the larger towns 
was the request to fill in a paper giving all our past, 
present and future ramblings, our business, our sex 
and age and Christian names. The same applied to 
all registrations in France. A few of the smaller 

60 



hotels had forgotten the habit for the time being, or 
did not scare you on first coming, but before leaving 
asked your signature. 

Passing through Eton, we were amused at the 
"sleevers" worn by the boys. The Trilby type of hat 
was evidently not in use. Perhaps "toppers" might 
apply. Lunch at the Windsor Inn kept us waiting, 
owing to the week-end crowd. A V. C. greeted us as 
we alighted. Poor chap, he seemed worthy of a better 
job, but as Browning once said — "All service ranks 
the same with God. " London motor drivers can tell 
you much of the social side of life, their journeys to 
outlying posts, bouts at various inns and how they 
sometimes wait for their passengers until the "wee 
sma' " hours of the morning. The Dumb Bell Inn 
seemed rather original in its nomenclature. We always 
associate this title with the remark of the actor on the 
stage, who was accused of some defect, and seeing the 
futility of argument, replied — "Alright, dumb bell!" 

At Slough we were attracted by a large enclosure, 
with a high board fence extending for a long distance, 
which we were informed contained as many as ten 
thousand "crocks" — remnants of the ravages in France 
in the motor line. Here were grouped all kinds of 
automobiles, flying bedsteads, and every sort of 
conceivable conveyance, which had been "bumped off" 
while on duty. What a chance for some Jew or dealer 
in such second-hand commodities! 

Thus ended our journey to the metropolis, where we 
were housed for the Sabbath, still on the alert and ready 
for further adventures. 



<;i 



CHAPTER VII. 

London to Land's End. 

"Seeing London Backwards" enables one to spy 
out the country, where plenty of mysteries remain 
hidden from the eye of the passerby. Near Trafalgar 
Square we caught sight of a couple of friends from The 

Hub — Bishop and Mrs. , strolling along with 

never a care. Extending ourselves out of the window, 
we yelled — "Hello, Bish!" but the salute was unheard, 
owing to the din and confusion. A second shout 
seemed to remind them that something was happening, 
just what they could not tell. His reverence looked 
up at the sky, but no voice gave answer to his query. 
A moment later they were swallowed up in the roar 
and bustle of the ancient city, and we were left to 
wonder where they were domiciled. 

The Bishop, as we found out later, was taking a 
summer's rest abroad, and planning to attend the 
Cambridge Conference of Modernists at Girton College. 
Rumblings were already beginning to be heard, and 
the outcome at that time could hardly be gauged. 
Since then we have heard and read a good deal of what 
transpired, and the threats of heresy trials just to 
promote the unity of the church and make ecclesias- 
tical life more exciting. 

One more sermon on "Heat" proved appropriate 
for the season. "Getting hot under the collar" was 
the real theme in work-a-day terms. Our theatre 
choice was not worthwhile, and next morning we were 
glad to quit the scene. While in the vicinity, we 
learned that a theatre manager or someone connected 
with a music hall remarked that henceforth the num- 
bers on the program would be announced, because 
"we think it only fair that the two Scotchmen, who 
just came in should have the benefit of this information 
as well as those who bought programs." 



WW 




me s tomb, Bonchurcl 
Isle of Wight, 
p. 76 




Medlar tree at Bemerton, near Salisbury. 

planted by George Herbert, 1630f. 

(P- 72) 




Devonshire. 

p G6 



mar aausburj 
(p. 70) 



Salisbury marked our first pause on the way to 
Cornwall, the land of "Tre", "Pol" and "Pen". The 
ancient see, located near Old Sarum, is set apart from 
the busy stir of life. From a hilltop we saw the tall 
spire of the noble edifice, located near three rivers — 
the Wiley, Avon and Bourne. One time the Cathedral 
was at Sarum. Later it was moved to the present 
town. History in these parts moves on in a sort of 
uneventful style. Constable employed some of his 
time in painting the Cathedral from a point south of 
the city, and not far from a village called Nunton. 

One of the soldiers in the Canadian Army told one 
of the residents of Salisbury that the Cathedral close 
was the most beautiful thing in Europe. We agreed 
with this decision, but not this year, owing to the 
excessive drought. The beauty will return again. 

Tea at "Byways" prepared us for our last 30 miles 
to Bournemouth. "Three 'earty cheers for the host 
and hostess ! " The roses were in bloom, the sweet peas 
a little past prime, the apples still growing, and the 
wasps in abundance. We noted that our host put his 
spade to good use, even during our short stay, by 
exterminating several thousand of these insects. Deep, 
deep, deep, were they buried in mother earth. 

At "Barksome" Towers we were welcomed by 
"Tanks", a handsome spaniel, and kindly disposed 
toward all guests. The manager, when taking dinner 
was always accompanied by his Al dog-friend. 

The man, who laid out the town of Bournemouth, 
must have been three sheets in the wind, or have taken 
something which gave him a turn, because the streets 
are in circles, and when you try to find your way to 
some particular spot, you inevitably land somewhere 
else. It took us half an hour to locate our hotel on 
return from the Golf Course, and we only played 
eighteen holes. 

This course is up to the usual standard. It has many 
hazards, which try the patience of strangers as well as 
the natives. Heather abounds on the downy hills, 
and the novice is seen searching for his ball in the 

63 



scrubby growth. The large supply tank sometimes 
catches the ball. "Hell" at St. Andrews is not to be 
feared after scurrying around these parts. Blessings 
upon the 'ead of Lady , who helped to outline the 



The bathing near the hotel proved excellent. One 
day we were caught in a huge wave, were bowled over 
several times, pushed back and forth, and then like a 
conquering hero we sat down on a pile of rather hard 
stones, which cured us of the desire for bathing the 
remainder of that afternoon. A few charming ladies 
disported themselves after bath in the sun-houses along 
the beach, enjoyed the prospects, wondered at the 
distant beauties of the Isle of Wight, and on occasion 
showed some interest in the people who were making a 
display of their fairy forms on the sandy beach. 

Our hours spent in the dining room were pleasant 
enough. One had a fine eastern view from the window. 
Outside on the piazza a bowl of marmalade was expe- 
riencing a crush of wasps, busy trying to get at the sweet 
at the same moment. Failing in that, some of the 
less fortunate visited the dining room, and made the 
guests a little uncomfortable. One ray of the humorous 
served to brighten a certain lunch, when we asked our 
Garcon to bring us a couple of extra glasses. He 
returned later with two bottles of Bass's. The waitress 
at Torquay repeated the same trick on a Sunday 
morning before breakfast — and all because of the 
pronunciation of a certain word. 

The pines are deserving of mention. The air of 
Bournemouth is supposed to be a curative agent for 
those who have weak chests. Perhaps the pine trees 
add to the salubrity of the atmosphere. In fact, we 
inferred that everything in the town was salubrious, 
even religion, but taken in small doses does not pro- 
duce dangerous symptoms. Summer resorts are likely 
to put religion in a corner, in spite of the Scotch 
revivalist's cry, that "God winna be put in any sic 
place. . ". 

64 



Next day we hied ourselves away to the west, and 
took our first sample of Devonshire cream in the ancient 
town of Exeter. Popple Inn or New London Hotel 
was the exact spot. How that first cognomen is 
pronounced, whether "pope" or "pop" (we prefer 
pop) is a question. People in the west of England 
act differently and talk differently from those in the 
east. So there you 'ave it. How is one to tell what is 
the correct usage, when travelling in a foreign country? 
One thing we found for a certainty and that was that 
cream cost 4 shillings the pint, and you had to order it 
ahead of time. How have the good old days passed 
away! We managed to corral a half pint, and when 
we were cleaning up, a black cat helped us to wash the 
dishes in the lounge of the hotel. 

A jolly old place! Sort of inside courtyard of long 
ago, where bus parties arrived and drove in a la style. 
The pavement was stone tile. The design of the walls 
as ancient as Noah's Ark. In case of rain, you stand a 
chance of getting soused, provided you are in direct 
line of the drop. One of the dignitaries of the Cathe- 
dral favoured us for a half hour with his presence, 
leggings, shovel hat and all the other accoutrements. 
He seemed to fill the bill exactly. How wonderful 
to be a Dean in a real cathedral and not a bogus speci- 
men from Oshkosh or Timbuktu — only in these latter 
places the Dean is forced by native custom to wear the 
extra girdle! A number of jolly Englishmen were 
seated in one corner, imbibing tea, looking very reticent, 
very wise and very red. 

Torquay, famous again, and good for weak chests; 
also good for reducing the size of your purse. Situa- 
tion somewhere about Tor Bay. The lawns are said 
to be "elastic" — at least according to one writer. 
Just where this "stretchability" comes in we are not 
able to determine, but for once we fancy that these 
bits of greensward were anything but "elastic". The 
only elasticity we were able to decipher in that locality 
was the extra foot which the hare got on the hillside 
when the village cat was after him. 

65 



The village of Cockington is one of the most charming 
bits of Devonshire scenery. The thatched roof of the 
old smithy at the crossroads is one of the novelties of 
England. A picturesque, country church on the 
Mallock estate dates back to Norman days. Roger de 
Cockington seems to have been around these parts 
somewhere about the year 1297 ff. It is said that 
three families have held this estate for over 800 years. 
The Master of the estate was killed during the Great 
War. Whether he has a successor we are not aware, 
but for his sake we hope so. 

The journey south of Dartmoor, across the Dart, is 
charming country — a very fine region for those inter- 
ested in art and blessed with artistic talents. Here it 
is said Sir Walter Raleigh learned the art of smoking on 
some rock or island located near the Dart. He must 
have smoked "Anchor Brand". Just now any kind of 
brand will serve the purpose. Sir Walter was certainly 
a wicked boy. Think of his example on the present 
day and generation! 

Plymouth, somehow associated with the Pilgrim 
Fathers, looked a little dreary to us on that morn of 
our arrival. Mists were in plenty, and we were glad 
to reach the ferry, just in time for passage. While en 
route to the other shore, we made the acquaintance of 
a very gracious gentleman (God rest his soul!) and a 
young gentleman, who was conveying said aged party 
to his destination somewhere near Cornwall. The 
conveyance was what we might style a Flying Bathtub. 
We were looking for a spot called Looe. The party in 
question said they were going thither and would be glad 
to pilot us. Somehow we stumbled on that ancient, 
Cornish password — "Two to Looe ..." and when our 
young friend chimed back — "Pip, pip . . ."we knew 
that we were on the right track. In due time we were 
welcomed by our friends, who lived on a very high spot 
overlooking the sea, were lunched and made happy, 
and so sent on our way to a place called Trevarno. 

A few pleasant days in a quiet English home in- 
creased our vitamines, and surrounded by a dark wood, 



spacious lawns, and a half million rooks, we were in a 
position to gain a new viewpoint of life. When those 
rooks acclaimed their home coming, the clamour was 
deafening. After bedtime, the sleeper was aroused by 
the occasional croak of some disgruntled party in the 
tree-top. 

Before the invention of guns, tree-top life must have 
been enchanting. Being only a rook, the creature 
could sit up top and caw-caw-caw all he pleased. 
Many people regard these birds as "miscreants steeped 
in crime". The Scottish Parliament ordained their 
destruction, seeing that "ruks brigande in kirke yards, 
orchards, or treis". . . Strange in the process of that 
disease called Civilisation that rooks should have taken 
to city life, but so the fact is attested. A rook seen 
sitting upon a house-top years ago was considered a 
sure sign or omen of ill-happening amongst the inmates. 
You get an idea of the rook-habit in Wells about 4 a. m. 
each day. The coming to town of these varmints is all 
in line with the modern exodus of country people to 
the cities. Why then condemn rooks any more than 



At the Lizard, one day, we sipped the sweets of 
existence by having a run with the swine and later a 
little exercise on the Mullion golf course. A very 
tricky place! W T ell do we remember the hole located 
near the sea-cliff, the drive across the inlet from the 
sea, and the green just by the old church, nestling 
under the shadow of the sand-dune. The ladies, who 
gave money to build this house of God, were a bit put 
out with each other for the reason that one seems to 
have donated her money for the nave and the other for 
the tower and there the structure abides, church and 
tower, although separated. The donors must have 
had Chichester in mind. 

Stories of the days of war kept us amused o' nights, 

especially the one concerning Gen. A , who was 

supposed to get things done in Palestine. One of his 
men appeared a certain morning and reported his I ask 

67 



completed. "Very well, " said the General. " Tomorrow 
morning at eleven I want you to have such and such 
completed." "Very good, Sir!" said the attendant. 

"I don't want your d d approbation", said the 

General. "Go and do it!" 

A pleasant visit to Treliske helped us to renew our 

acquaintance with Sir George and Lady . 

The master has ere this departed, leaving a great gap 
in the home life, rich in honors and fulfilling by his 
active life the motto — "After work, rest." 

We can still recall the vision of the dark wood, misty 
in the evening light at the House in the Vale— the 
rooks there in their tree-top fastnesses. The morrow 
meant good-bye to our kind friends — not forgetful of 
the one apart who, at even, still views with interest the 
passing of time and tide — and the bourne to which 
each one in his destiny must gang awa'. 




Binstead Church. Isle of Wight. 

Saxon idol over doorway. 

(p. 77) 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Salisbury, Chichester and the Isle of Wight. 

The pronunciation of various foreign names is often 
a mystery to the traveller, who finds it inconvenient to 
carry an encyclopaedia with him. Place-names are 
hard to negotiate, Cornish, Welsh and Scotch. Family 
names are also difficult. The solution to this latter 
difficulty was offered in the words — "Go to the man in 
question and ask him how he pronounces his name." 

Our return to Salisbury carried us north of Dartmoor, 
where "trixies" abound. The moors looked lonely in 
the afternoon light, and at night must be positively 
disturbing to the nerves. The Devil seems to have 
been present in Cornwall since early times and has not 
yet departed. Holy water is plentiful — though not so 
much so as in France. His majesty's presence is 
recognised in connection with symbols such as pies 
and other human activities. The threat to incorporate 
him in one of these pasties, acted as a deterrent in the 
west, and in all probability drove him to Ireland and 
other wild islands of the Seven Seas. 

Exeter again, and Popple's Inn, the courtyard, where 
the guests are gathered. The Dean in his chair, 
pouring over some guide book for information does not 
look up. Owing to the poor light we are compelled to 
desist from taking our usual picture and lay aside the 
camera with an air of resignation. 

R. L. Stevenson one time visited here and his letter 
(a copy) is framed and hung on the stairway wall. It 
reads — "If you happen to be ill, I pray that you may 
have as good a place as Popple's Inn to rest. ..." 
The hostel is undoubtedly restful, but the beds remind 
one of antiquarian days. The four-poster refused to 
stay on the level, and the feathers always seemed to be 
in the wrong place. Morning found us able to continue 



our researches. The Guild Hall was pointed out to us 
as memorable for the case of Bickford vs. Skewes, which 
was decided on a technicality. 

High noon found us at Yeovil, where we alighted in 
front of an old inn called "The Three Choughs". These 
creatures were evidently held in detestation by the 
early farmers of Britain. The chough was formerly 
known as "The Cornish Crow". To-day it is rather 
scarce, and but scattered traces of its existence may be 
found in the Hebrides. Why such a name happened to 
be chosen for an inn is another question. The luncheon 
was a little below par. A few moments after our 
meal, we examined one or two of the curiosities of the 
town, and while doing so a Reverend Kite appeared, 
introduced himself and said he had just heard that an 
American parson was in town. It seemed rather 
strange that Mr. Kite should come kiting after us so 
suddenly, decked in his shovel hat, customary gray 
whiskers, long black coat and to cap all a cordiality, 
which seemed strange in a foreign land. We learned 
that one time he had spent a few years in missionary 
work in the American West, and his training there had 
opened his eyes to a new kind of mortal. 

We found the military camps at Salisbury deserted — 
the men gone, the shacks in a ruined condition. On 
the hillsides here and there we noted the military 
crests made by the soldiers while in training. The 
wind seemed just as biting as of yore. One of our 
friends nearby said that while the war was on, some of 
the "ambitious Samsons" of the plain came one night 
and carted off her gates. 

"Byways", our temple of peace for a few days, was 
really glad to welcome us again. In the quiet neighbor- 
hood, we reviewed our experiences of the summer, and 
found that Seeing Europe Backwards was a commenda- 
ble scheme. At least the method represented one 
point of view of the long procession of happenings. 

Sunday evening service at the village church im- 
pressed us as different from things in America. The 

70 




Driver Ball at Torquay. 




worshippers sauntered churchward one by one, the few 
unsurpliced choir-boys took their places in the stalls, 
and the minister began the evensong. When the time 
came for the Rev'd MacGlaud to read his sermon, 
which contained many useful thoughts, we found that 
the peaceful effect was somehow broken by the leaves 
sticking, and his difficulty in making page 25 harmonise 
with page 27. 

Our host reviewed the happenings at the seven 
hundredth centennial of the cathedral at Salisbury. 
Part of his role had to do with getting some of the 
American Bishops from the station to the place of 
service. His question propounded to one personage at 
the depot — "Are you a Bishop?" brought out the firm 
reply— "Sure I am!" This official probably hailed from 
Arizona. 

The silence of this village impressed us. No un- 
couth sounds marred the harmony of the surroundings. 
In one instance, we believe that an owl deigned to come 
one night and do a little musical act on the window- 
ledge of the lady's boudoir. The disturbance was such 
that the master was compelled to stone the bird of 
night, and although the aim was uncertain, yet resulted 
in the retreat of the enemy. We were thankful for 
the quiet, the peace and refreshment before going hence. 
Fortunately no deaf people lived in the vicinity, and 
no loud holloaing was necessary. "Making a cheerful 
noise unto the God of Zion" is permissible in proper 
place, but noise in the country should be forbidden. A 
writer in the Spectator remarked not long ago that the 
people in London like the place because there is plenty 
of noise, but it is not intermittent. The story of the 
woman on top of the bus talking to another friend re 
outlying heaths is to the point. She expressed herself 
in the words — "I feel so thankful I don't live anywhere 
outlandish. It must be so quiet at night." 

The castle not far away is beautifully situated in 
the midst of a magnificent park. The building, dating 
back several centuries, has about it an air of the past. 
Our afternoon visit to see the interior found us in the 

71 



care of a maid with at least six different kinds of teeth 
(we mean size). The pictures represent a choice 
selection of masterpieces, chief of which was a painting 
of Erasmus by Holbein. An old iron chair, delicately 
made, presented by Augsburg to Rudolph, Emperor of 
Germany in the 15th century, was most interesting. 
The carving on the back represented old Bel in bed 
with the figure of a statue at the foot. On the other 
side was Daniel explaining the dream. Bel's staff 
seemed to rest on the top of Daniel's brain-box. Hav- 
ing signed up and paid our fee, we made a quiet exodus 
from the place, which once required seven hundred 
lamps to light it, and three men to do the daily snuffing 
of wicks and cleaning. Now the lamps and men have 
disappeared and given place to electric lights. Such 
are the ways of progress. 

All members of the Anglican Communion, and some 
others, when in the vicinity of Salisbury, pay a visit to 
Bemerton parish, where George Herbert once resided. 
His charge was short lived, owing to his death in 1633. 
Drawn towards the religious life, opportunity offered 
him this rectorship, whither he came shortly after his 
marriage. His early decease left the world poorer, yet 
in his short life he wrote that delightful book called 
"The Country Parson" and also "The Temple" or 
"Sacred Poems", which represent some of the purest 
religious lyrics in our language. 

The present incumbent, Reverend A , Mus. Bac, 

Oxon., received us graciously on the afternoon of our 
arrival, and pointed out some of the interesting features 
of the rectory — the study, where Herbert no doubt 
composed his sermons, and wrote many of his literary 
works. The floor of the present room was raised about 
three feet by a previous incumbent to provide more 
space for his "grape juice", which renders the present 
spacing a little cramped. A couple of the old windows 
remain. A spacious lawn stretches away to the Nadder 
on the east side. One feature we must mention, and 
that refers to the medlar tree planted by George 
Herbert somewhere about 1630-1633. A few years 
ago this treasured memorial began to show signs of 
decay and the last stages of decrepitude. A Kew 

n 




Entrance to Carisbrooke Castle, 

Isle of Wight. 

(p. 70, 



authority in London was consulted, and he recom- 
mended its grafting to a thorn tree to be planted 
within a foot or two of the original medlar. The 
grafting process was a great success, and to-day a new 
tree gives evidence of perpetuating the memory of the 
sainted George Herbert. We noted little apples in 
growth and a few thorns, which developed as a resultant 
of the cross. The rector reminded us of the example 
before us as marking a Continuity, and mentioned 
that book of Dr. Allen's, called — "Continuity of 
Christian Thought". 

Many times we tried to photograph the medlar tree 
and the grafting process, with what success you may 
note on careful scrutiny of the picture. The history 
of the tree and later developments render it one of the 
rare things of its kind. 

A couple of swans flitted like white fairy forms across 
the dark of the mirrored pools. An angler nearby was 
busy swishing his line up and down the stream, trying 
to lure some unsuspecting grayling. 

Chichester suggested itself as good ground for 
exploration. A little out of the line of public travel, 
it escapes the raids perpetrated by a curious populace. 
On our way thither we caught a distant glimpse of 
Portsmouth, the home at one time of Charles Dickens. 
The reader of his books will do well to remember the 
author's apt descriptions of mental diseases. Evidently 
he was more interested in medicine and doctors than 
lawyers and clergymen. Only one clergyman of any 
importance is considered in the whole category of his 
works. The Church then was evidently in the back- 
ground — an excellent setting for the scene of life, 
provided its existence can be made a reality to the 
actors. 

Chichester is built on the criss-cross plan with the 
old market cross standing at the centre of the ways. 
Roman influence is evidenced in the plan. Our Inn 
was situated only a stone's throw from the centre of 
the town. 

William Collins, one of the minor poets of England, 
was born in this town. His father was a hatter by 

73 



trade. The phrase — "mad as a hatter" may or may 
not have originated here, but in any case William lost 
his reason ere he reached the middle period of life. 
His school training took place at Winchester and later 
at Oxford, where he won his B. A. in 1743. The records 
indicate that he was "too indolent for the army", was 
dissuaded from entering the Church, and as a last 
resort tried to make a livelihood in London through 
his literary efforts. This sort of a career has reduced 
many a man to a state of penury and desperation. In 
some cases fame has at last deigned to recognise their 
efforts. Collins is a man of "one poem" — the "Ode 
to Evening" — and best known by this perfect produc- 
tion. When he wrote it he somehow managed to get 
all the elements working in his favor — a very rare 
combination in this transitory world. Gray is known 
to the general public as the author of the "Elegy". We 
suppose it is better in the end to be known for one 
thing, which stands out above all others, than to try 
and do a great many things. The exalted Genius of 
course must be left out of this combination — Shakes- 
peare, Beethoven, Dante and a few others. To be 
known as a person of one cure, one parish, one wife, 
one automobile, one golfing passion is commendable. 
We give Collins the glory, when we say that his "Ode 
to Evening" is as fine as anything of its kind in the 
language. How long it took him in composition is 
probably unknown, but in it he rose to high-water- 
mark. These descriptive lines are incomparable in 
their way — 

"Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn. . . ." 



See also his hymn of patriotism — 

"How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest, 
When Spring with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 



74 



The Cathedral at Chichester, begun about 1085, 
burned in 1114 and 1186 (fires rather close together, 
but insurance in those days was unknown) has passed 
through many vicissitudes. The spire collapsed in 
1861 in a sort of telescopic fashion or sort of dropped in 
its tracks. Fortunately the men at work had just 
retired at the ringing of the lunch-bell. The spire is 
said to be the only one in England which can be seen 
from the sea. We haven't been able to verify that, but 
presume there is authority for the statement, which at 
least is mentioned in Baedeker. We saw a very 
curious drawing or carving on one of the choir stalls — 
rather strange for a miserere — a man playing a violin 
and kissing a lady at the same time, music set to 
voluptuousness. Naughty monks! The pictures of the 
former kings of England on the wall of the south 
transept are curious specimens. The door below 
dated back for some centuries. The Bell Tower 
"stands alone" like a certain brand of coffee, but the 
former is probably destined to last longer. The 
sculptured panels of our Lord and Mary and Martha 
and Lazarus are worth inspection. "Paradise" close 
is near by — a very commendable spot, where "angels 
with their silver wings o'ershade the ground. ..." 

Once at Chichester, it is easy to return home via 
Haslemere and Hindhead, and, moreover, this region 
is famous as the resort of many literary people — in 
some instances very curious people. But then, you 
know, these "Literary" are in a class by themselves, 
and their brain-throbs operate according to a law 
differing from the throbs, which seem to jar ordinary 
souls . . . "dull sullen pris'ners . . . dim lights of 
life, that burn a length of years useless, as lamps in 
sepulchres. ..." Haslemere was once the home or 
residing place of Tennyson; Tyndall, whose temper 
seemed to correspond to his name or suggest a hot wire ; 
Geikie, Doyle, MacDonald, Allen, Eliot, Shaw and 
a few others. Prof. Tyndall was often exasperated by 
the curious people, who persisted in coming near to 
inspect his premises. In consequence, he raised a 
high wall and thus dwelt secure from vulgar gazing. 

75 



George Eliot dwelt at Shottermill cottage and there 
conspired in the writing of "Middlemarch". She and 
her father seem to have had an occasional falling out, 
but George fell back again. It was all due to going to 
church. The writer of so many good books undoubt- 
edly drew more than she cared to acknowledge from 
the influence of her father and the church — a heritage 
of the blood. 

Our efforts at Seeing Europe Backwards must close 
with a brief resume of our trip to the Isle of Wight. 
The day was perfect, very like the ones we spent at 
St. Andrews, Scotland, and Mullion Golf Links, 
Cornwall. Lunch at the Gloster Hotel gave us op- 
portunity to glimpse the Terpsichore off shore. The 
afternoon we spent in a motor trip to Newport, Caris- 
brooke Castle, Godshill, Ventnor, Bonchurch, Shanklin, 
Brading, Ryde, Binstead and East Cowes, the former 
residence of Queen Victoria. 

The Castle is beautifully situated on a hill, is noted 
in history, and still attracts large numbers of pilgrims, 
who desire to view its ancient walls and listen to the 
legends of past days. Charles I. was imprisoned here. 
Here his daughter died some months later and was 
buried at Newport Church, where note monument 
given by Queen Victoria. The donkey at the well on 
the inside of the castle grounds receives his due share 
of attention like a lot of other donkeys, who are at 
loose heels and not half so useful. 

Our object in visiting the southern part of the island 
was to get a glimpse of Swinburne's grave. Reader, 
do not think that our preference is for " hallo w'd dirges 
muttered over tombs", but the beauty of the spot 
seemed alluring, at least from accounts, and then, 
Swinburne, although not a didactic writer, yet somehow 
had a command of language, which was truly amazing. 
His combinations of vowels and consonants go to the 
production of the greatest number of phone-tones 
imaginable, though not necessarily possible. During 
early youth, he spent some years at East Dene. The 
view as we found is "the best possible" and the church- 

76 



yard is so beautiful that according to Shelley — "It 
might make one in love with death to think one would 
be buried in so sweet a place. ..." The brothers and 
sisters lie here — his grave a little apart. We recalled 
his words — 

"Let come what will, there is one thing worth, 
To have had fair love in the life upon earth. " 

Whisking ourselves hence, we came to a halt in 
front of Binstead Church, and viewed, but did not 
bow down to, an old Saxon idol over the doorway. It 
looks something like a man sitting on a ram's head . . . 
possibly some relative of Thor. In trying to photograph 
it we got badly scratched by the brambles, but interest- 
ing pictures are worthwhile, and idols such as this are 
not easily accessible. The town of Binstead is men- 
tioned in the Domesday Book as "Benestite". Quarr 
Abbey not far away and founded in 1132 was later 
demolished by some commercial soul. At present the 
Benedictine monks from France (1911) have con- 
structed what looks like new quarters. 

The evening sail to the mainland gave us a fine view 
of the surrounding country. At the dock in Southamp- 
ton we recognised the Mauretania laid up for repairs. 
The good ship "Acq. " was already at her dock, waiting 
to convey us to our final destination. 

So home. The night was calm. The moon cast her 
silvery light on the southern hilltop, and a subdued 
quiet reigned in the vicinity of "Byways", broken now 
and again by the rattling of char-a-bancs on their 
route to Bournemouth. A few moments later we heard 
the sound of the bell at the Major's striking the hour, 
which called to sleep. 

Our departure from Southampton next day was 
delayed owing to difficulty in turning the ship, but 
once moving seaward, we made our way down the Water 
towards the Isle of Wight. An airplane above us was 
busy photographing "The Quest", Sir Ernest Shackle- 
ton's ship, bound for the Antarctic. Near the island we 
did a wiggle-waggle turn, but once over the dangerous 
shallows were off on the long journey. As darkness 

77 



descended, we were able to catch the flashing of lights 
on the French coast, which gleamed intermittently 
during the night, and guided us into the harbour at 
Cherbourg. "The breath of the night wind" though 
gentle at first, became more turbulent and threatening; 
the swell increased; the "moon blanch'd" sea grew 
livid and then dark as we turned toward the vasty 
edge of the Atlantic. 

"Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. " 




78 



ADDENDA. 

The line drawings in the aforesaid sketch were 
drawn at the writer's suggestion by Mr. F. G. Cooper, 
425 Tremont Avenue, Westfield, New Jersey, otherwise 
known as "FGC", who maintains his own copyright 
on final execution. 

The half-tones represent reproductions from personal 
pictures taken en route. 



Reference Books: — 

Baedeker's "Great Britain", "Northern France" 
and "Paris", 1909 ff. 

Bayeux Tapestry — 

Belloc, J. H. P. N. Y. Putnam, 1914. 
Bruce, John Collingwood. London. Smith, 1856. 
Fowke, Franke Rede. London. Bell, 1898. 
Freeman's "Norman Conquest". Oxford Univ. 
Press. 

Chartres Cathedral, The Sculptures of. M. & E. 
Marriage, Cambridge Univ. Press, 1909. 

Manual of Modern Scots . Grant & Main Dixon, 
Cambridge Univ. Press, 1921. 

Animal Life in Scotland. James Ritchie, Cam- 
bridge Univ. Press, 1920. 

The Home Book of Verse . B. E. Stevenson, Henry 
Holt & Co., N. Y., 1912. 

The Edinburgh Book of Scottish Verse. W. 
Macneile Dixon, Meiklejohn & Son, London, 1911. 

Fifty Years of Golf. Andra Kirkaldy, T. Fisher 
Unwin Ltd., London, 1921. 

Mountain and Moorland. J. Arthur Thomson, 
Prof. Univ. of Aberdeen., London, S. P. C. K. 1921. 



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